Something Within
by XxScriboLegoxX
Summary: Same Author, New Account! A doctor is out to make a name for herself and she wants to do it by figuring out Michael Myers. In her short time working with him she makes an impression on the supposedly mindless killer. When she is fired she never imagined he would come after her.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I was having some problems with my other account so I have decided to move everything over to this account. I could not get onto to my other one, XxScriboxX, and the email attached to that one was deleted so I could not get my password. I am just going to delete it (because I did get back on, but already made this one, and do not want two accounts).

I plan on continuing this story soon.

Thanks to those who have stuck around and those of you who are new! ENJOY!

1990. September 22nd

Dr. Charlotte Hurst had arrived at Danvers State Mental Hospital only one hour before her first session with the notorious killer Michael Myers. She had been contacted by the hospital for the criminally insane after her most recent book on the inner mental workings of Psychopaths and Sociopaths made the best sellers list. She had been the leader in the field of the criminally insane and at the young age of twenty five. She had been the youngest graduate ever of Stanford University and had published some of the most ground breaking and controversial research since Bandura and Freud.

When doctor after doctor failed to get through to Michael Myers the medical review board at Danver's decided calling in the impressive, if young, Psychotherapist couldn't hurt. They had nothing to lose at any rate. She came into the building with a bright, excited smile. Only moments after setting her things down in her new office she asked to see her newest patient. When she entered the small room she saw the man, thirty three years in age, secured tightly to the arms of his chair. A table was placed directly in front of him and he was staring at it blankly.

"If you could leave us alone, please," Charlotte said as three other doctors followed her in.

"Dr. Hurst, this is a very dangerous man," Dr. Hirsch told her and she smiled softly.

"I understand that, but he is secured, you may watch through that window there, and he has no weapon. Please. I know what I am doing," she said and the three older men looked at each other but soon nodded and slowly left the room. Charlotte turned with a satisfied smile and placed her things on the table. "Hello, Michael."

The man in question said nothing but continued to stare down at the table with a vacant expression. Charlotte sat down and looked across form him. In her hand was a pen and she scribbled down initial observations as they sat in silence.

_Non-responsive. Cold. Vacant expression. Little/no activity in eyes. Shoulders set firmly. Head hung low. _

"Do you think you will talk to me Michael?" she asked and he did nothing. Charlotte tapped her pen on her notebook. "Do you need anything Michael?"

The slightest movement of his eyes caught her attention and she bit the inside of her cheek. _Eye movement at offer for aid/sustenance/help. _

"I can get you something. More blankets? Better food perhaps?" she asked again. He remained still. _Breathing quickens. _"Michael?"

The man in front of her jerked in his restraints and the entire chair, which had been bolted down onto the floor, shook. Charlotte raised her hand toward the two way mirror to her left. She didn't want the doctors running inside and shutting everything down. He jerked a few for more times before he sat still and Charlotte scribbled down in her notebook.

_Violent reaction. _

"Michael, I'm here to help you," she said gently. His head jerked to the side and he looked down at the floor in front of him. Charlotte watched him a few moments before standing and collecting her things. "My name is Doctor Charlotte Hurst. You can call me Charlotte if you like. Or Lottie, my friends call me Lottie and I would like to be friends with you Michael."

She smiled at him but he continued to stare blankly at the floor. When she exited the interview room a few of the doctors approached her with angry or troubled expressions. She waited patiently for them to speak.

"You shouldn't speak to him like that," Dr. Hirsch said.

"Like what?" She asked and placed her hand in her white coat jackets.

"Like he's…" Dr. Hirsch paused a moment and Dr. Larson finished for him.

"Human," the doctor said and Charlotte laughed.

"He is a human being, gentlemen," she said and looked at her notes. "You'll never reach him if you treat him like a psychopath. Psychopaths, they don't think of themselves in those terms. If I am to get anywhere I need to reach into what is inside of him."

"There's nothing there, Miss Hurst," the arrogant Dr. Hanson said and Charlotte smiled coolly.

"It's Doctor Hurst thanks, and there is something, otherwise he would not be alive," she said. "As evil as it may be, there's something inside of that man. Good day Gentlemen. I'll be in my office if you need me."

Charlotte walked past the three doctors and into her office. Her office was a modest size, but not uncomfortable. She was used to being the new doctor on sites and was always given the worst accommodations. It was ok with her, as long as she could work she was happy. She wrote out her first report on prisoner W31-3691-78, also known as Michael Myers. He had been different than she had imagined him. The horror stories she had heard gave birth to a vision of a large, brutal, savage looking man with the look of pure evil about him. Michael Myers though, the man she had seen, was tall and well built, but nothing monstrous, and he didn't look evil. He looked vacant.

There was nothing all that remarkable about him. His hair was a dull walnut color, and his face was that of a normal, almost plain man. We he not her patient, she might even say he was handsome. His eyes though, they did give her something to think about. They were a dark, deep brown that some could mistake for almost black. She would not, however, say they were absolutely void. There was little there, no surface emotion could be seen within them, but there was thought going on behind his eyes.

What he was thinking, that was the frightening part. She had written an article on Michael Myers, based on police reports and other books written by his previous doctors and was viciously attacked by Dr. Loomis on her findings. The Dr. had his mind sent on the man being a void of emotion, evil incarnate. Charlotte didn't believe that. There was _always _something more going on beneath the surface. That is why she got into psychology in the first place. To understand what made people tick. And Michael Myers, he had to be the most interesting case she had ever, and ever hoped to, come across. And she certainly wouldn't let these others doctors interfere with her work. Their methods had obviously not worked. She would be damned if they made her bend to their view of psychological medicine.

Charlotte sighed as she finished writing her report. Couple more hundred of those and she might be able to write something substantial. She just needed to be patient. She'd get through that surface eventually.

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Charlotte walked into the interview room to see Michael seated in his chair with his head down. When Charlotte sat down at the table Michael's eyes moved upward slightly so he would watched her in his peripheral.

"Hello Michael," she said as she sat down and placed her things on the table. "Think you are going to talk to me today?"

He said nothing and Charlotte opened a folder on the table. She took out a few photographs and placed them face down a few feet away from him. His eyes scanned over the pictures slowly but he made no other move.

"Did you sleep well Michael?" Again she was met with silence. She scribbled down some notes and flipped over one of the photos. It was placed directly in front of Michael and she saw his eyes move back and first across the photograph. It was subtle. If you were not looking for a reaction it would not be seen but it was there.

_Reaction to photo of mother_

"Do you remember her Michael?" she asked and he looked down from the photo. His body stayed so still the doctors watching from the other side of the glass thought she was getting no response. "I bet it hurt that she never came to visit you. Did it?"

His hands curled into slight fists on the chair. Again, so subtle that those who thought he was a monster void of emotion would miss it. His short hair fell forward to cover his forehead.

"Were you sad or angry Michael?" she asked. "Please speak to me? I'm not like these others doctors you know. I know you're a person too."

His eyes shifter to the left and she was quiet a moment. When she flipped over the other photo he looked away again. He refused to even look at the one of his only living sister. She was with him forty minutes when she decided to leave. Before she closed the door behind her she turned her head to get one last glance at her new patient. To her utter excitement and budding fear he was looking right at her.

(())

September 29th, 1990

"I'd like to observe him in his room," Charlotte said as she left their seventh session together. She had been at Danver's a week and had not yet seen his holding cell.

"That can't be done," Dr. Larson said and Charlotte raised an eyebrow.

"And why not?" she asked crossing her arms. "He is my patient. I should have full access to him."

"You would, if he were not so dangerous. He's escaped two mental facilities before-"

"Yes, a minimum security and while he was being transferred. He will not escape simply because I am watching him in his rooms. I also," she said before he could respond. "want to have my sessions in his room. He will be more comfortable in there. More likely to open up to me."

"Dr. I hate to say this but he will not open up. There is nothing in that man. He's empty." Charlotte smiled shrugged.

"I'll be there to observe him twelve to one tomorrow. I will then speak to him in his room from one to two thirty," she said and turned to walk away.

"Dr. Hurst please. Speaking to him, _at _him for so long, it could trigger something."

"Isn't that what I want?" she asked as she walked away. "Any reaction is better than none."

"You're playing with fire girl!" Larson called and Charlotte stopped walking. Her jaw clenched and she stalked back to the older man angrily.

"I don't care if you dislike my methods, Doctor, but I do care when you disrespect me so blatantly. I'm as much a doctor as you are. Now you back off and let me deal with my patient as I see fit. I'll be at his room for observation noon tomorrow. If you still feel the need to supervise me, then be there."

She walked away from the silent, simmering doctor angrily and slammed the door to her office when she arrived. They thought she wouldn't be able to reach Michael Myers. She'd show them.

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September

Michael sat unmoving in his room the entire hour Charlotte watched him. He sat in his chair, his flimsy robe wrapped tightly around him, staring at the wall in front of him, just as Dr. Loomis had described in his books. Charlotte couldn't stand Dr. Loomis. He did nothing to try to help the sick man and instead only attempted to make money off of him. She shook he head to herself as she watched Michael. He looked, to her, so normal. She would read the police reports at night to remind herself what he was capable of. She wouldn't allow herself to become delusional, to think that the man was good. No. Her argument was that there was something there, that something wasn't necessarily good.

"I'm ready to go in," she told the guard and he nodded. Dr. Larson had decided not to come supervise. The guard opened the door first and drew a baton that was at his side. She realized a taser was fastened to the end of the baton.

"Alright Myers, stand up and get onto the restraint chair," he said and the man stayed seated. "Myers, get up. Now!"

"Michael," Charlotte said and his head turned to the side slightly, as if to hear better. "Please do as the man says."

Michael stayed seated for a few moments. When the guard was about to yell again he stood from the small wooden chair and walked over slowly to the one that had multiple, padded restraints on it. Charlotte would guess he was around six two, a tall man but nothing extraordinary. Even without superhuman height, he towered over her smaller frame and Charlotte took a small step back. When he was seated he placed his arms on the arms of the chairs and placed his palms down at the edge as he was supposed to. Charlotte stared at his hands as the guard strapped down his legs, arms, chest and abdomen to the chair.

"You can wait outside," Charlotte said when the guard was done and he frowned.

"I don't think I should. He's-"

"tied up…please," she said and he nodded reluctantly, heading out of the room. "Can I sit in your chair Michael?" she asked and took the chair he had been sitting in. She moved it so it was placed in front of him. He said nothing but moved his eyes up toward her. She had come to believe that meant he was ok with something. He still had yet to speak, and she doubted he ever would at this point; it had been over two decades since he had after all. But he had started making eye contact with her, but only when she asked him questions. When he glanced up at her she smiled and took her seat. Once she had he looked back down at the floor. He tugged gently on the restraints, as if tested them, and Charlotte looked at him nervously. When he settled back down she let out a breath and smiled.

"It's cold in here, isn't it?" she asked and he looked at her a moment. "I'll get you more blankets. Your gown is too thin for this temperature."

She stood from her chair, unaware that his eyes were following her. She walked over to his bed and looked up at the vent in the ceiling. A frown covered her lips and she tilted her head.

"Well that's not right," she said and reached up toward the vent. Her finger tips just managed to push the slide over and the heat began pumping into the room. "Your vent was turned off." She told him as she took her seat again. She crossed her legs and looked at Michael who was looking at the ground. "I wish you would talk to me Michael."

She looked around the small white room and smiled sadly. She couldn't imagine such an abominable existence. She almost pitied him. Almost.

"Would you like to watch some TV Michael? I could get you some TV time if you wanted?" she asked but Michael kept his eyes on the floor. She's worked with children before and when they looked at the floor it was usually in an act of submission, but when Michael did it, it was as if he were just waiting. Waiting for what she didn't know. She watched him, attempted to coax sometime of reaction from him but nothing happened. He stared at the floor the full hour and a half she spoke with him. When she looked at her watch and saw it was two thirty she sighed and got up. "I'll see you tomorrow Michael. I'll see what I can do about that TV." She said and left the room.

Michael's eyes raised form the floor as she turned her back to him and watched her leave. Only one thing was circulating around his mind for the rest of the night. He barely registered the guard fastening him down to the bed for the night. His mind was stuck on one thing only.

_Lottie_

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October 5th 1990

"What's this I heard about you sending a TV into Myers' room for a few hours?" Dr. Larson asked as he entered Charlotte's office. Her hair was in a messy bun and she had put on no makeup. She had fallen asleep at her office trying to finish her latest report on Michael and woke up stiff and sore.

"He needs stimulation," Charlotte said and rubbed her eyes.

"Stimulation is the last thing he needs," Larson snapped.

"I was called in here with the understanding that I could study him as I saw fit. As long as no one was put in danger I could do what I wanted with him. Well, if I am to figure out how he works I need to get him interacting with people. Watching TV may help things," she told him and rubbed her forehead.

"Well, I have sent in a formal complaint to the head of Danver's Medical review team. I've requested your immediate job termination."

"Why would you do such a thing?" she asked him horrified and he scowled at her.

"You don't understand that thing. Your just a little girl way above her head. You should be hearing from the board within the week. Good day," he said and shut the door. Charlotte was left alone and she looked down at the reports in front of her. She had gotten so far and done so much work in such a short amount of time. The knowledge that that could soon be all over sent a wave of desperation and depression to wash over her and she laid her head down on her reports and cried.

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October 7th, 1990

Charlotte packed a small stack of her most important things to move out. Everything else would be shipped to her soon after she vacated the premises. Because it was such a high security hospital she was required to leave immediately. As Charlotte walked out of her office she passed a smug Dr. Larson who leaned against a wall with his arms crossed arrogantly across his chest. Charlotte said nothing, but scowled at him as she passed him. As she left the hospital she felt a sense of loss at no longer being able to speak to the notorious Michael Myers.

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October 10th, 1990

Lottie hadn't come to see him in three days. The first day he felt the budding sense of annoyance at being left in his room all day alone. They had taken the TV from his room in the middle of his promised hour and he was told Dr. Hurst, Lottie, would not be coming to speak to him today. He at first assumed them to be liars. The doctors, nurses, guards, they always lied to him. Not Lottie though and she promised him TV time. She also told him the day before she would see him tomorrow.

He waited the next day for her to come back and talk to him. Despite having no windows and no clocks he could tell the time of day quite easily. He knew breakfast meant morning, lunch meant afternoon, dinner meant evening. Lottie came to him between lunch and dinner. When Dinner came, and Lottie had not come see him he had grown angry and thrown his dinner at the guard as he retreated from the room. The guard hit him a few times with his baton before leaving him alone with no food for the night.

Today he finished his lunch and set it by the door as he was expected to before going back down to his chair. He waited until his dinner came before he once again felt the urge to kill pump through him. Whenever someone opened the door to his cell, and it was not his Lottie, he felt his anger jump a level.

_Where's Lottie_

He kept repeating it over and over in his head waiting for an answer but none came. He tightened his hands around the arms of his chair until his knuckles were tight and white.

_Where was Lottie?_

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October 13th, 1990

11 P.M

An alarm ran rang through the halls of Danvers at 11 P.M Friday night. Three Guards had been found dead, they skulls crushed against the concrete walls of the basement cell walls. When the lead Doctors discovered the bodies they immediately sent guards to Myers' room but he was nowhere to be found. The door was left ajar and his outer hospital robe was on the floor soaked with blood.

11:21

Michael found the small room that still had the name Dr. Charlotte Hurst written on the window. He nearly ripped the handle from the door in order to open the door and he flicked the lights on. He looked around the empty room before approaching the desk. Her things were still scattered about but he could tell she had not been there for a while. Everything was in perfect order and her little day calendar had not been flipped since the tenth. He glanced over the desk once more and spotted a small picture on the desk.

Lottie was in the picture along with another woman he didn't know nor care about. He picked the picture up and titled his head. With one fluid motion he ripped the picture in half so only Lottie remained. Satisfied he kept the photo in his hand and headed for the door.

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11:35

Larson got the call just as he finished his report on prisoner H11-4691-79 when his door burst open. He nearly fell from his chair when he looked over to see the blank face of Michael Myers in the door way. He reached for the phone but before he could react Myers ripped the cord form the wall rendering it useless.

The killer approached him and Larson shrunk back into his chair raising his hands in self-defense. He was momentarily dumb struck when a photo was shoved in his face and he looked up at the killer. Determination covered his face.

"What-wha-"

The Killer shook his hand and brought the photo closer to the doctor before pointing at it with the other. The doctor nodded. His breathing had become heavy and he was sweaty profusely.

"Dr. Hurst? Yes, she, she was fired," he said and Michael looked at the picture.

_Fired?_

"She isn't here anymore," he said and Michael crumpled the picture onto a ball in frustration. "What-"

Before the doctor could speak Myer's picked up the phone from the table and began to beat the arrogant doctor over the head brutally. Blood splattered across the room and onto the Killer's gown. Once the life had gone from the doctor Myers looked at him a moment. He could hear the ringing of the siren but he was not concerned. Instead of hurrying he calmly peeled away the doctors close and placed them on. They were slightly too big for him but once he placed the white lab coat over his shoulders he looked like any other doctor walking the halls. Luckily for him the doctors kept him secluded. No other patient or doctor outside of three, one of which he just killed, had seen him at any closeness to be able to identify him.

Satisfied with himself Myers turned away from the bleeding body slumped back in the chair and turned his back to leave.

He had a doctor to find.

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	2. Chapter 2

October 14nd, 1990

Northwestern University

1:45 pm

"But some of the best known psychopathic killers showed thorough planning before committing their crimes," Freddie said from the front row of one of Northwestern University's best lecture halls.

"Ah, but you can be impulsive and still be thoughtful can't you?" Charlotte asked her student from the front of the classroom. She leaned against her desk as she faced her students. She truly enjoyed her new job and was lucky to have gotten a teaching position so quickly but she missed working with patients. "Yes Lucy?"

"I think the impulsiveness comes in the form of not thinking ahead at the possible consequences of their actions, not so much in their ability to plan the actual crime," a Master's student in the back of the room offered. Charlotte nodded her head and let Freddie respond.

"But by saying someone is impulsive; it suggests a lack of planning doesn't it? I mean how can a person who meticulously plans their crimes be impulsive?"

"Because even by planning they are impulsive and reckless. Like, this person plans to the detail how to murder his wife right, but once he's done he has no plan on how to cover it up or get away with it. He was too busy thinking on the act, not the consequences," Lucy countered.

"But the act itself is not impulsive. It's planned, the person is just short sighted about it," Freddie argued.

"Short sightedness is impulsive," Lucy said.

"Short sightedness is not the same things as impulsiveness," Freddie said but Charlotte held up her hand before Lucy could respond.

"I hate to do this to you all. Great discussion today but it's time for you to go. Look over the case file of Kenneth Taylor for Monday," She said and turned to collect her things. She paused when she realized no one had moved. "Yes?"

"Professor Hurst?" Freddie asked with a sheepish smile. "We were wondering if you could tell us what Michael Myers was like."

Charlotte sighed and looked down at her things. She was still upset over being fired and being robbed of her opportunity to work with the notorious murderer. It was her dream to work with someone as psychologically fascinating as Michael Myers and she was unlikely to get such a chance again. She was not one, however to deny her students information she herself acquired.

"He was incomparable to anything I have ever seen before," she said and the others watched her with grim expressions. "I wasn't there long enough to be able to tell you anything substantial but I can tell you this. There is something in that brain of his. He isn't a breathing machine programmed to kill. There was thought going on behind those eyes and I was able to see it. I want you all to remember that the next time you bring a Samuel Loomis book into my classroom."

Some of the students laughed softly but others were too disturbed by the thought of Michael Myers to do anything but frown. The students all rose form their seats as Charlotte placed her things in her bag.

"Thanks, Professor,"

"Bye, Professor,"

"Have a good day, Ma'am,"

He students said as they filed out of the room. Charlotte smiled and nodded at them as they passed before following her last student out and locking the classroom door. She was having trouble getting Michel Myers out of her head. She had been fascinated before. Now that she had been able to be in the same room as him sit across from him and talk to him, she was downright obsessed. She went through every piece of paperwork she had on the Myers case. She reviewed her own notes every night looking for any little clue she could find on who he was inside his head.

The more and more she searched the more frustrated she grew. She would never be able to get anywhere deeper into her analysis of him if she couldn't see him again. She felt her blood boil as she thought about that asshole Larson. What she wouldn't give to set Michael loose on him for a few moments. A good scare would do the arrogant prick well.

She pulled her coat around her tightly as she stepped outside into the chilly air and made her way to her car. She had found a comfortable apartment only a few miles from school and she enjoyed the walk to and from campus. Especially in fall, it being her favorite season. Leaves scraped across the ground as the wind took hold of them and a strand of Charlotte's honey colored fell out of its bun.

The streets were relatively empty, as they usually were this time of day. Children were not yet back from school and parents were not back from work. It was nice to be out alone with her thoughts and the chilly breeze was oddly comforting. As she walked her mind melted back to Michael Myers. His eyes had been so dark. It wasn't even just the color that made them so dark, it was what was underneath them. The relative blankness seemed to her just a cover for the tumultuous sea of emotion she knew had to lie beneath the surface.

She believed that some people were born broken, born wrong, but she didn't believe a person could be born completely without emotion. Even sociopaths had basic emotions. Dr. Loomis was a brilliant man but he got so wrapped up in his belief that Michael Myers was emotionless and nothing but a vassal for pure evil that he lost sight of his job as a doctor. His responsibility should have been to take care of Michael try to figure him out, not treat him like he was less than human.

She was ripped from her thoughts when she heard her name called and heavy footsteps approaching her from behind. She spun around and saw a small group of her students running towards her.

"Professor Hurst!"

"Dr. Hurst!"

They called. Freddie was among the pack of students running toward her and she walked up to meet them. As they ran a few of them waved newspapers in the air and shouted over each other.

"He's out! He's out!" Jason yelled and Charlotte felt her small smile slipping from her lips.

"What?" she asked and Freddie held his newspaper out. She read the newspaper headline three times before it began to sink in. She blinked repeatedly as she processed the news.

'_MICHAEL MYERS ESCAPES DANVERS STATE MEDICAL HOSPITAL: FOUR DEAD IN MURDERERS WAKE'_

She took the newspaper from Freddie's hand and scanned the article. Not much was said about the details of the escape and the article contained mostly history and speculation. Her students watched her intently and waited for her response.

"Think he'll go back to Haddonfield?" Jason asked and Charlotte looked away from the newspaper and up toward him.

"What? Oh, yes, I suspect he would," she said and glanced back at the newspaper before murmuring. "He always goes home."

"Only a couple more weeks until Halloween," Richard said and Jason smiled.

"You know what that means," Jason said and made a stabbing motion with his hand. Freddie hit him in the arm and motioned to Charlotte with a jerk of his head. Charlotte stared at the newspaper a few more moments before looking up at her students.

"Can I have this Freddie?" she asked and Freddie nodded.

"Sure thing doc," he said and Charlotte smiled.

"Thanks."

"See you Monday," he said and the small group of students went away. Their professor's discomfort was obvious and no one wanted to prod her for a reaction right now. Charlotte walked back to the small home she rented with two other women slowly. She read the article multiple times, sticking to the parts about the escape. Dr. Larson, Dr. Hirsch and two security guards had been killed in the escape. One of the guards had been found stripped down to his underwear, Michael's gown piled on top of him. It was suspected he had dressed in the guards clothing and simply walked out the front door.

A chill went down Charlotte's spine and she stood at her front door. The thought that Michael Myers was out there somewhere free to do what he wanted, free to _kill _again, was terrifying. She could only imagine the horror he would bring down on countless people. When she stepped into the house she quickly shut the door and locked the door.

"Hey, Charlotte I was-" One of her roommates Jessica, stopped speaking mid-sentence when Charlotte jumped and cried out in surprise.

"Jesus Christ Jessica," Charlotte said and Jessica laughed.

"Sorry, I just wanted to tell you that I was going out for the night. Christina is watching TV. In a real bitch mood too," Jessica said as she put on her coat. Charlotte nodded. She had half the mind to tell Jessica not to go out but they were miles from Danvers _and _Haddonfield. Michael wouldn't be anywhere near here.

"Drive safe," Charlotte said as Jessica went out the door and walked into the living room. "I need to put the news on real quick."

"No," Christina said as she stared at the screen.

"It's important," Charlotte said and Christina looked at her and raised her eye brows.

"And I care?"

"Just a few minutes. Michael Myers-"

"Oh God enough with fucking Michael Myers," Christina said. "I'm so fucking sick of hearing about him. He's a psycho killer. Stop being so fucking obsessed with him." Charlotte frowned at the younger woman.

"He escaped," Charlotte said and Christina took a sip of her soda.

"whoopdie fucking doo," she said. "I don't live in Haddonfield."

Charlotte rolled her eyes angrily and turned to go into her bedroom. The girl infuriated Charlotte and the less she talked to her the better. When she got into her bedroom Charlotte curled up on the bed and stared at the newspaper a few more times before tossing it to the side. She rolled over onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow.

Exhaustion set in and Charlotte felt herself slowly falling to sleep. The last thing she could remember thinking was whether or not Michael found his jumpsuit and mask in storage before he left the hospital.

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7:36pm

Charlotte woke up to a thud and a yelp. She looked over at her clock with tired squinted eyes and groaned. She wouldn't sleep at all tonight. She usually did her best not to nap during the day but the news of Michael had taken a lot out of her. She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. She heard another large bang from downstairs and a frown settled over her face. She slid off of her bed and walked into the hallway.

"Christina? Are you drunk?" Charlotte called from the top of the stares. "I don't want to have to carry you upstairs again."

She was answered with silence and Charlotte shook her head. She was about to turn and go back into her room when she heard the sound of a body hitting the floor. She knew that sound. Christina liked to drink and more than once Charlotte had witnessed her falling over or passing out on the floor. What struck Charlotte was odd was that she got drunk so early and usually Christina came home drunk. She never got drunk at the house.

She felt her way down the stairs and groped the wall for the light switch. It got dark so early now that it might as well have been the middle of the night. She felt the light switch at the tip of her fingers and flicked it upward. She waited for the living room to fill with light but nothing happened. She continued to stand in the dark, eerily quiet, house.

"Fuck," Charlotte whispered and took the final step off the stairs.

A sudden shriek left her throat as she felt something against her hip and she threw herself to the side. A laugh bubbled up in her throat when she saw it was the very frightening fake fichus Jessica just had to buy that she had bumped into. She froze when she felt something against her bare foot and she kneeled down slowly. She immediately recognized the object she placed her hand down as Christina's face.

"Christina?" she whispered, a sudden ache of fear settling in her stomach. "Christina?"

She shook her housemate's body but she got no response in return. Charlotte tried to contain her panic as she stood and backed away slowly. She turned to go to the kitchen. She prayed the phone still worked even though the power was out. Before she could complete her turn however her shoulder collided with something hard and warm and she stumbled backward. A yelp left her throat and she looked up at the source.

When her eyes landed on him she at first couldn't process the information. Her mouth went dry and she felt as if her chest caved in terror seized her entire body. The white mask appeared to glow in the dark room and his body looked taller and stronger in that blue jumpsuit than it ever did in the hospital.

Reading the police reports she had never been able to fully appreciate the sheer terror his victims must have felt before they died. Now she could. When he took a step forward she stumbled backward and collided with the coffee table. The back of knees hit the glass covered wood and she fell backward onto the table.

He approached her slowly and calmly, the knife gleaming in the moonlight. His actions were always controlled, he never rushed. She remembered writing about that in one of her articles about him. All the eye witnesses said the same thing. He never ran. He never rushed. Even when things went horribly wrong he remained unaffected.

She felt tears touch her eyes as he came closer to her and she waited. She knew her chances of escaping were slim to none. He'd catch her before she could get two feet. He could snap her like a twig if he wanted but something told her he'd much rather use that big knife he had in his hand. His right arm rose over her and Charlotte put her hands up.

She supposed some would think it ironic that she was murdered by Michael Myers considering how much of her life she had spent studying him, but to her it felt like a horrible betrayal of some sort. She was no doubt ridiculous to feel betrayed by Michael Myers, he owed her nothing special, but she had tried too hard to reach him. She had tried so hard to understand him and now he was going to kill her like she was just…anyone else.

"Michael!" she cried when he suddenly jerked his hand down and he froze. She screwed her eyes shut and waited for the feeling of the blade ripping into her flesh but it didn't come. When she recovered some courage she opened her eyes and looked up at her former patient. The white mask stared down at her blankly but she could see his eyes. They had the look she used to attribute to him trying to make his mind up on something. "Michael?" she asked more softly and to her utter amazement he dropped his knife yielding hand.

Charlotte sat up on the table and looked up at him cautiously. She didn't know how to go about this. Every psychopath she had spoken to had been in a hospital, not two feet from her with a knife in his hand. She flinched when he slowly brought up his left hand and hovered his fingertips over her cheek bone. She could feel his finger tips on her face even though he didn't touch her. It was like an electrical charge that caused goosebumps to erupt all over her skin. As she watched him she felt a swell of happiness rush up inside of her. He wasn't going to kill her! Maybe, just maybe, he had formed some type of attachment to her as a human being. In that moment she felt that everything she had done in her life, granted it was only twenty five years, was worth it. She had done the impossible. If only she knew exactly what kind of attachment Michael had formed.

Her surge of triumph quickly began to fade as she watched him raise his knife again, but before she could feel the inevitable terror that would soon flood through her he jerked his hand down, bringing the handle of the blade down on her forehead.

Her vision immediately went black and fell forward, landing completely unconscious at his boots.

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October 15th

1:03 am

The agony splitting through Charlotte's head was nearly unbearable. A moan left her as she stirred awake. It took her a few minutes to open her eyes and once she did she was struck with the frightening realization that she was in the back of a car, her hands bound at the wrists, and her legs bound at the ankles. The nights events came flooding back into her in waves and she tried to lift her head to the front of the car. The moment she did black spots covered her vision and she felt her world spin.

"Oh, God," she moaned and pressed her face into the leather interior of the car. She opened her eyes slowly as she turned toward the driver of the car. "Michael?"

Her voice was soft but more than a whisper and she knew he heard her. He said nothing in response though and did not even so much as tilt his head. She tried to wrack her brain for a logical reason he would take her with him…wherever it was he was going. Michael Myers didn't take prisoners, he either decided you weren't worth killing for some reason or he killed you. There was no in-between.

She may not have been overly surprised had he not killed her and moved on. But him taking her was something she couldn't understand, and not just because she was suffering from a rather serious concussion. Her thoughts were muddled and confused as she tried to get a grip on herself. A sharp wave of nausea came over her and she hung her head over the side of the seat. She moaned softly before vomiting onto the car floor.

"I have a concussion, Michael," she said but again got no response. She felt herself slipping back into sleep but she fought against it. She couldn't sleep now. Concussions could be dangerous and it was best not to sleep when suffering from them. Also, she didn't like the vulnerability sleeping would expose her too while in Michael Myer's presence. A sharp turn of the car had her once again heaving and her head protested in agony.

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October 15th

6:19 am

She didn't know how much time passed until the car finally stopped but the sun was just coming over the horizon when it did.

"Michael? What are you doing?" she asked as he got out of the car. She managed to pull herself up into a sitting position and look out the front of the car. Michael walked toward the front of the house slowly and calmly, as he did everything else.

_Psychopaths do not recognize the risk of being caught or injured as a result of their behavior. _

She remembered writing it in her dissertation but had never personally witnessed a psychopath committing a crime. It was chilling to watch Michael walk and know he had no concerns or worry about the mass hysteria that had been created by his escape.

When a middle aged man she would not hesitate to call a redneck walked out of the door holding a shot gun she felt her stomach drop. Her eyes went to Michael who did not stop his stride at all. She knew the outcome before she saw it play out before her. The man called something to Michael she couldn't quite understand from inside the car but Michael kept walking. The man let off a shot into the air but Michael didn't as much as flinch.

Charlotte lowered her head when she saw Michael climb the steps to the small cabin. She kept herself from letting herself cry but lowered her head to her knees. When the car door opened she allowed herself to be pulled from the car by her arm. Michael's warm, large hand wrapped around her bicep and gripped her firmly. She fell to the ground, unable to balance on her bound legs.

When she hit the ground a small sob escaped her and tears leaked out of her eyes. Michael stood over her for a moment, watching her silently. She could feel his eyes on her and when she collected herself she looked up slowly. She sniffed when her eyes landed on his white, expressionless mask.

She looked into his dark eyes but inside there was no sign, no clue, of the reason why he took her with him. As they looked at each other she tried to come to terms with her new situation.

She was in the middle of nowhere, bound at the hands and feet, and completely and utterly at the mercy of none other than Michael Myers.

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	3. Chapter 3

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October 15th

6:21 am

Michael watched her droop her head in defeat and recognition. He allowed himself the fleeting feeling of gratitude that he had not killed her when she came downstairs back at the house. He had heard her speak but it was not until she said his name that he knew it was her. She was the only one that used his name. The other doctors had picked up where Loomis left off and began referring to him as 'it'. It didn't bother him, not in the sense it would bother a normal person. But when his Lottie first came in to speak to him and greeted him like he had seen others greet each other there was a strange pressure in his chest that seeped warmth into his body. It was one of the strangest feelings he had ever encountered. He was skeptical of it at first but he soon came to the understanding that it was a good feeling. Something he wanted again.

His first urge when he realized he had found his Lottie was to touch her. It was again a new desire for him. He wanted to touch her to know she was real, that he had actually found her. He couldn't bring himself to touch her though. There was a type of barrier he felt erected between them. Every day she had come to speak to him, her hair pulled back neatly, glasses resting on her face, her pristine white lab coat not all that different from his white hospital gown. She had been his doctor, unobtainable. When she was in the same room he had been bound, tied up like an animal and unable to go near her.

That was why the first thing he did once he had her unconscious was bind her. He was the one in control now and he could do as he pleased. He circled the duct tape around her ankles more times than he could remember, just to be sure that she could not break free. When he bound her wrists he was a bit more careful and was even thoughtful enough to wrap her wrists in a piece of ripped fabric before binding them with the tape.

It turned out to have been a good thing he had not taped over her mouth. But it was not the possibility of a concussion and the likely vomiting that came along with it that had stopped him. In fact he had never considered the dangers of striking her over the head. He knew it would not kill her and that was all that mattered. In the end though, it was his desire to hear her speak that made the final decision. He wanted to hear his name on her lips.

When she woke up in the car he had been glad to hear her voice again. He had come to the understanding in the hospital that when she walked in and he felt the small spread of warmth in his body, that it had been what others would call happiness. Had he deemed the information worthy enough he would have informed someone he was feeling an emotion he had heard Loomis say multiple times was beyond him. Talking had always seemed useless to him. Speech was something that should only be used in a time of complete and utter necessity. Michael, since the age of six had never felt such a necessity. There was nothing worth vocalizing.

Michael reached down and scooped the little doctor up in his arms and carried her like a new bride into the house. He stepped over the dead man, a shot gun still in his hand, without a care. Lottie looked down at the man only briefly before turning away her face scrunched up and a tear coming from her eye.

Inside the house it was small but comfortable for two people. Once inside he placed her down gently on the floor, aware she had something called a concussion that was causing her discomfort. He took his knife form his pocket and walked the bottom story of the house. He heard no noise, except the occasional sniffle form Lottie. When he finished his search of the first story he went to check on Lottie. When he was comfortable with the knowledge she had made no attempt to run he searched the upper story. There were no pictures in the house which gave Michael the impression that the man had lived alone and no one would come looking for him. It was useful seeings how Lottie would need a place to sleep, eat and stay warm. Things Michael had never bothered to provide himself with.

"Michael?" he heard Lottie's voice from down the stairs and he followed her voice. When he got to the bottom of the stairs he scooped her into his arms once against and carried her into the living room. "Michael, I need ice for my head."

He put her down on the couch so she was sitting upright. Her small hands resting in her lap and her feet planted on the floor for balance. He looked at her a moment and frowned underneath his mask. Dried, rusty colored blood coated her forehead and matted the side of her hair. He hadn't meant to make her bleed. He had been hit over the head countless times but had never bled. Lottie must be more fragile than he originally thought.

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7:06pm

"Michael, please. My head hurts so bad," Charlotte told him but he continued to stare at her.

_The mental processing of a psychopath is more cognitive than emotional. _

Charlotte sighed and her shoulders dropped. She was about to give up when Michael stood and walked out of the room. It took him ten minutes to return but he had with him two cloths and a small bag of ice. He handed her a cloth and a bag of ice before rather forcefully pressing the damp cloth into her bloody forehead. Charlotte grimaced but said nothing. Michael's actions may have been rough but he thought he was helping her. She didn't think chastising him would get a positive reaction out of him. She sat through the pain as he wiped the blood away from her face before rising the ice to what she was sure a sizable bruise and bump on her head. Michael stared down at the cloth for a moment before dropping it on the table. Charlotte kept her eyes on the table in front of her and tired not to look up at Michael. She didn't know how to approach the situation and she wanted to gage Michael's mood before acting.

"Michael," she said softly and looked up at him. "Can you take your mask off?"

He looked away from her, something she learned meant no.

"Michael, I know you," she said. She was going to reach out to touch his sleeve but didn't. She had never, besides being carried by him quite recently, touched him. She didn't know if he would be ok with it or not. She thought, maybe, if she could see his face the terror she was feeling would subside slightly. Seeing him outside of his hospital gown was unsettling, seeing him in that mask, terrifying.

Her stomach clenched when his hand hovered over her cheek. She could feel her hands tremble and she lowered the ice from her throbbing head. When he finally pressed his palm to her face she was surprised by the warmth of him. His large hand rested on her cheek and his head tilted to the side. Once again she was at a loss. She had prided herself in her ability to analyze, understand and then predict the behaviors of psychopaths, but this was beyond her. His touch was not one to harm, nor was it one to move her. Strictly speaking, based on her analysis of Michael, the only reason he should have to touch anyone is see to his own needs.

His hand slipped down lower until it rested on the side of her neck, his thumb circling around and resting firmly on her windpipe. Charlotte swallowed hard and could feel her lips tremble. Strangulation was always a way she didn't want to go, and now she was going to be murdered by a patient, former patient she supposed. And not just that, but a patient she had worked so hard to understand. She had started her own private research before she even left high school. The moment police reports and case studies had been available for her at her college she dug even deeper into the mystery that was Michael Myers. Hell, she did her dissertation on him for God's sake.

His thumb stroked her neck slowly and she was stricken by the horrible thought that he was just savoring the moment of her death. Perhaps he did see her like any other doctor and had brought her here to torture. She bit her lip. That didn't make sense though; it wasn't in keeping with Michael's character. He was a serial murderer but he never tortured anyone.

She took in a panicked breath when she felt him apply pressure but she soon realized he was in fact pushing her to her side. She went with his guiding hand, all the while appreciating the fragility of her neck in his hand. Once her side was pressed to the couch he picked her feet up from the floor and brought them up so she was laying on the couch. Charlotte watched in silent wonder as he placed hand over her eyes gently. She understood he wanted her to go to sleep but she didn't understand why.

She hoped, when her mind was clearer and she wasn't suffering the after math of a blow to the head, she'd be able to think a little better. Perhaps figure out what it was he wanted. When he hovered his hand over her eyes a second time she shut them. She had no intention of sleeping but as soon as her eyes were shut she felt exhaustion overwhelm her. Perhaps sleep wasn't such a bad idea after all.

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8:20 am

When Michael was sure that Lottie was asleep he left the house to bury the body on the front porch. Lottie wouldn't like to see it. He dragged the body around the side of the house and dug a shallow grave with a nearby shovel. The back yard was large and covered with lush green grass but a forest, thick with trees, lay just at the edge of the property.

Once the body was buried he went in through the back door. He made his way back to the living room and sat down on the coffee table. He reached out and gently ran his fingers over the large bruise on the side of her head. He saw her forehead crinkle and he took his hand back and waited. When she didn't wake up he continued to stare at her. He didn't like watching her sleep. The muscles in her face were slack and relaxed and she looked totally at peace.

She looked dead.

And he would know, he had seen a lot of dead people. If it were not the small rise and fall of her body he would not have been able to tell the difference. The breath going in and out of her body was the only sign to Michael she was alive. His discomfort began to fade as her eyes began to shoot from side to side underneath her eyelids. He had never seen a dead body do that. Of course he had never seen anyone do that. He wanted to touch her again but he kept his hands down. He would wait until she woke up.

All the others he watched did it while the girl was awake…

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1:15 pm

Charlotte woke up alone and with a dull aching in her head but the worst of it had subsided. She pulled her elastic out of her messy, blood matted hair and ran her fingers through the greasy strands. She couldn't put her hair back up due to the duct tape around her wrists so she hung it over her shoulders. She listened hard for a few moments trying to see whether Michael was in the house or not. When she heard nothing but silence she leaned forward and did her best to rip through the duct tape around her ankles.

She looked around anxiously as she pulled at the tape. Her heart pounded beneath her rib cage and she was finally able to fully appreciate the situation. She was alone with Michael Myers.; a man who had killed seventeen people, one of them his own sister. She was not under the allusion that Michael was not going to hurt her. Even at this point something small could set him off. The longer she lived, ironically, the more dangerous her situation became. Sooner or later Michael would change his mind and kill her.

When she broke through the tape her finger tips were red and sore. She ripped the tape off of her jeans and stood and began to work on her hands. She walked to the edge of the living room and looked down the hall. The house was silent and all Charlotte could hear was her own heavy breathing. She stepped into the hallway as she tried to get the tape off and managed to find the kitchen.

She found a knife sitting on the table and struggled with it as she tried to cut through the tape. It was difficult with her hands bound together but she eventually broke free. All the while listening for music Charlotte washed her face in the sink with cool water and tried to clean out her hair. Once she pulled her hair back in a ponytail she took a quick drink from the faucet to replenish her dehydrated body. When she was satisfied she made her way quickly and as silently as she could to the front of the house.

Looking out the windows she saw the front yard empty. The car Michael had driven them there with sat alone in the front of the lot and Charlotte bit her lip. She took a breath and tried to evaluate the situation. It was unlikely that Michael had taken the keys with him when he left the car. She actually in that moment had the absurd thought that she would have to remember to use that as an example in class on Monday for the impulsiveness of a psychopath. If she could get to the front seat of the car without Michael seeing her she would be able to get the hell out of there. She'd get to the police, tell them where Michael was, and hopefully he would be brought back to Danver's.

She looked around once more time and listened for movement. When she was sure there was none she opened the front door. She expected to see the dead body of the poor, former owner of this house, but the body appeared, judging by the blood stain, to have been dragged away. She hurried down the steps, surprised by the rush of cold air she was met with once outside. She looked over her shoulder as she hurried toward the car and saw no one.

She yanked the door to the Honda accord open and slid into the driver's seat and look to the ignition. She felt a wave of triumph run through her when she saw the keys still in the car. She shot her hand out to grab the handle. Instead of grabbing the door handle her hand came into contact with a solid mass of warmth and fabric. She jerked her head to the side and looked up to see her former patient looking down at her. Without a moment's hesitation she reached for the keys and tried to turn on the car.

Before she could get the car started her hand on the steering wheel was seized and she was yanked from the car. Her body hit the cold ground hard and the wind was knocked from her lungs. She looked up at Michael as he approached her slowly, his knife held firmly in his right hand.

She crawled away from him until she managed to get on her feet and head toward the house. She had always found it annoying how in horror movies when girls were being chased by a murderer they ran into the house. When she found herself running into the house all those memories of throwing popcorn at the movie screen with friends came back. She had no choice however. She couldn't outrun Michael, even if Michael never ran. He would get her some way or another. Her only hope was to lose Michael in the house and try to get enough distance between them so that she could get back into the car.

She was halfway up the stairs when she felt his hand close around her ankle and yank her down. Her feet flew out from underneath her and he body hit the stairs hard. She cried out as Michael pulled her down toward him and she was sure he was going to kill her. Tears left her eyes as she started to breath heavy and she flipped herself over onto her back. Michael pulled her to the base of the stairs before raising the knife to her neck.

She thought it ironic the man she was fixated on would be her death. The cold steal pressed against the soft vulnerable skin of her neck and tears leaked from her eyes. She looked into Michael Myers' eyes. The eyes of death.

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2:05 pm

Michael dropped to his knees on the stairs so he straddled her legs. He noticed her sharp intake of breath when he hovered over her, his thighs gripping her lower hips and holding her in place. He watched her throat constrict under his knife and he held the blade to her neck for a few more moments. He could feel her body tremble underneath him and he felt his anger dissolve.

When he had come around the side of the house and saw his Lottie getting into the car he was consumed with rage. This was the second time she tried to leave him, first when she was fired, and now this. But now that he had her on the ground beneath him, with his knife to her throat, he knew she couldn't leave him. It eased his mind and he looked down at her.

She was _his _doctor. She couldn't leave him.

He looked down at her. His free hand touched the side of her face gently. Her skin was soft and wet and Michael tried to wipe the tears away. His hands brushed over her face and he made her stop smiling. She sniffled softly. His hand replaced his knife on her throat. Her skin was milky. Creamy. So unblemished and untouched. He wondered what it would taste like.

His hand moved lower and he trailed his fingers tips along the collar of her shirt. Her breasts would rise toward him before dripping back down away from him. He watched them and a strange burning spread through his body. It was something he had never felt before. He would sometimes feel the low hum in his body when she came to him to talk, the way she would chew on her pen or bite he thumb nail while she thought.

He felt the pressure between his legs and frowned. It hadn't been since he was a teenager that this happened to him. He grew harder as he looked down and he was overcome with the need to touch her, the need to see what lay beneath her clothing. He could do that now. They weren't back at the hospital. He was in charge; she was _his _prisoner, not the other way around. She was _his. _

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Charlotte remained still as he gripped the base of her shirt. When he pulled the shirt upward and revealed her smooth stomach she bit her lip to keep a cry of surprise from her lips. When his hand pressed down on the flat of her stomach Charlotte flinched and made a move to the right. Michael gripped her firmly and held her still.

"Michael," he voice was a frightened whisper. She was shocked by his actions. Never had Michael Myers ever shown any sign that he has any sexual drive. He'd been in contact with naked women, vulnerable women, and never had he acted on any baser instincts. All he wanted was to kill.

That was what she had thought until this point however, but his actions were without a doubt sexual. His intentions were clear. They were made clearer still when his hand slipped under her shirt and halted over her black, lacy bra. His eyes were swimming with heated arousal as he looked down at her and she shivered. Charlotte had been wise enough to see Michael Myers as a human being, but not wise enough to see him as a man. And Michael seemed to have discovered women as a sexual counterpart.

Her chest heaved and when his hand gave a firm, exploratory squeeze she felt hot liquid pool in her stomach. Her face flushed in horror as she realized her body was reacting to her current situation.

"Michael," she whispered and his hand relaxed on her breast. He picked up his knife and she screwed her eyes shut waiting for the blade to sink into her flesh or be dragged along her throat. Instead, she felt a tug on her shirt and the sound of ripping fabric. When she looked down her eyes widened. He was literally cutting through her clothing. He pulled the torn fabric, which had once been her shirt, and tossed it behind him.

Once again he brought his hand to her breast and gently stroked the swell of soft, blushing flesh that spilled over the front of her bra. When he gripped the top of the cup of her bra and pulled down gently her hands went to his biceps and gripped his jump suit firmly. Her eyes flew up to his and she saw him looking down at her in surprise.

She didn't push him away but instead held onto him firmly. His muscles flexed under her hands and his hand went back to her breast. She watched him explore her body, touching her firmly but with the curiosity and timidity of an inexperienced virgin. It was strange that such a vicious, powerful man could be so inexperienced in something like sex.

She actually found the idea exciting. His need was driven on instinct. Everything he was doing was what his body and mind were telling him to do, not what he had learned from another women. The unpredictability of those with mental disorders had always excited her. Knowing that those men would act on baser desires and not societies norms was deliciously frightening.

She gasped when he sliced through her bra and her breasts spilled free. He let out an audible sigh when he saw her and it was the closest she had ever heard to what his voice may have sounded like. His fingertips gently rested on the tip of her hardened nipple.

A shiver of pleasure ripped through her when he circled the pink of her breast. A grumble came from low in his throat and took the nipple between his thumb and finger. She watched as his head titled to the side. Suddenly, and without warning his fingers pinched together painfully and she cried out in pain. His fingers quickly left her nipple and he looked down at her in confusion. Her finger nails dug into his jump suit and his arm as an extension.

"That hurt, Michael," she whispered and blinked back tears. His eyes, and the skin surrounding them, looked down at her through the watch. She wished Dr. Loomis could see what he looked like now. She'd like to see him try to say he had no emotion now.

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Michael watched her eyes turn wet and he took his hand away from her. Instead of continuing to touch her breasts he pulled at the button of her jeans. He wanted to see her naked. He wanted all of her clothing gone. The more he thought about her body being covered from his view the angrier he got.

His body ached.

The throbbing between his legs was growing and he found it almost painful. Sweat was perspiring on his forehead and dripping onto his mask. He could hear his heart in his ears and his breathing seemed painfully loud inside his mask. He had never felt so out of control. He'd never felt so in need of something. Not even when he was stalking his prey. When he was killing he was at peace, nothing bothered him. This was painful. This was unyielding and demanding.

He pulled hard on her jeans. The squeak that escaped her pleased him. The way her body moved the way he wanted. Her body was small but full and curvy and Michael wanted it. He pulled the jeans down the length of her long legs before yanking on her underwear.

He often wondered what she would look like under her clothing. When she came in to talk to him, besides enjoying the sound of her voice as she spoke his name, he'd look over her small body and wonder what it would feel like to overpower her to have her to way he wanted her.

Now he finally did.

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Goosebumps spread over Charlotte's body as her skin was exposed to the cool air. Michael's jump suit rubbing against her thighs offered a small area of warmth and as the fabric brushed against her bolts of pleasure coursed through her. Despite the pleasure her body was being bombarded with Charlotte couldn't stave off the horror that she was experiencing.

She could not fight Michael off. He was too strong and could easily over power her. Even if she wanted to fight him off and take the risk he would kill her. She was sure of it. Michael was on a mission. His mind was set on something and he would react violently if he didn't get it.

She looked up at him. His eyes were burning and dark as they looked down at her and something was made painfully clear to Charlotte. She was about to get fucked by Michael Myers.

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	4. Chapter 4

October 15th

2:15 pm

Charlotte watched as Michael pulled down the zipper of his jumpsuit and reached into his pants. He had on the same blue shirt he had worn under the same jumpsuit when he had murdered all those people all those years ago. The thought flitted through her mind as he pulled out his impressively hard and throbbing erection. A sharp breath rushed into her lungs and her wrists squirmed under his firm grip.

He paid no mind to her though as he looked down at her. Even though she could not see his face she could read his body language. It was quite clear he didn't know what to do. While he probably knew how it worked, he was unsure as to how initiate the act. Based on accounts all couples he had come across had been in the middle of sexual intercourse and even if he watched the beginning actions of their copulation, it is unlikely he would have taken notes.

Charlotte's breath heaved as she waited for him to act. She screwed her eyes shut as he lowered himself closer to her body and positioned the head of his cock at her entrance. It had been years since she had sex and mixing together his inexperienced, his sociopathic nature, the size of him and his determination it was likely it would be painful. She waited for the powerful thrust and painful penetration.

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Michael felt her small body tremble underneath him and he felt his body relax slightly. Still though, his erection was throbbing painfully and he wanted nothing more to be inside of his doctor. He had never had such an unyielding and powerful need in all of his life and he didn't even know what it would feel like.

When he pressed the head of his cock against the hot, wet junction between her legs he felt a pleasurable shiver travel down his body. The top of his head tingled and he licked his lips in anticipation. No longer willing to wait he pushed himself inside of her as he had seen other men do.

When he slid inside her warm enveloping heat he felt such an overwhelming pleasure that his mind went completely blank. His body almost slumped on top of her and let out a deep breathy moan.

When she took in a deep, distressing hiss of breath and a small cry left her lips he froze. He immediately looked up at her face to see her reaction. As hard as it had always been for him to understand people's facial expressions he knew most basic emotions, happiness he knew, along with fear, anger, and especially pain. He was quite aware that it was pain that was written all over her face and he titled his head. He'd never seen a girl in pain during this. It was unsettling seeing his Lottie in pain and he waited.

"Just a minute, Michael," she said and he waited. Despite the trills of pleasure shooting throughout his body he managed to keep control of himself. He let go of the hand that held her wrists and pressed a finger to her cheek. She looked up at him, blinking away a tear. He didn't quite know what her face was saying to him, but her eyebrows knitted together and her lips turned downward, only just.

He dragged his finger tip down the side of her cheek, hoping the action would calm her. He thought that was what people did to take away distress. He'd seen it before. When her expression seemed to soften he grew more confident and pressed all four finger tips to her face and continued to stroke.

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When Michael had not immediately began thrusting into her she was surprised, but when he began to stroke her cheek she was flabbergasted. She had been confused at first, but she suddenly understood he was attempting to comfort her. She wished she could tell Dr. Loomis that. That the emotionless devil wanted to comfort her.

"Ok, Michael," she said and gently touched the side of his arm. She gripped his bicep and he leaned down toward her. His forearms pressed against the steps of the stairs and he got himself in a better position. When he began thrusting she still felt some romance of pain but the friction was amazing. She soon felt herself succumbing to the crippling pleasure her former patient was giving her and she moaned deep in her throat.

Michael seemed spurred on by her sounds because the more she moaned or gasped the harder his thrusts became. His body moved over her and her hands went to his back. Her palms pressed into his back and she could feel the hard muscles moving underneath them. His power engulfed her as he rocked against her and she could hear his heavy breathing in her ear.

Michael had always been susceptible to slight respiratory problems. His breaths were low and gravelly, hoarse against her ear. Through the mask she could feel the heat of his panting breaths and she fisted the back of his jumpsuit. He did not last long. He was shorter than her shortest lover and yet when he spurted himself inside of her, which was a problem she would have to deal with later, she was more satisfied than she had ever been in her life.

When she came down from her high she began to feel the hard wooden steps digging into her soft body and shifted slightly. She had little room to move with Michael's weight settling on top of her and it seemed he had no intention to move. His back moved up and down under her hands as he breathed hard and he stayed nestled deep inside of her. She didn't know if asking him to move would anger him, but her back was beginning to ache.

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Michael never wanted to move again. What he had just experienced was more than anything he could have ever imagined in his life. He wanted to be there forever. Her arms around him. Her body around him. It felt so good. He couldn't put it into words.

He felt her wiggling beneath him and he pulled back. He could see the pain on her face and he reluctantly pulled out of her. Immediately the heat was gone and he felt himself in a sour mood. He zipped up his jumpsuit and stood up. As he did his Lottie sat up and rubbed her back and elbows gingerly. He picked up her shredded clothing before scooping her up in his arms and carrying her upstairs.

Her head pressed against his chest and he felt his bad mood dissipate. He brought her in to the biggest bedroom with the biggest bed and deposited her on the bed. He tried to get her under the blankets and grew frustrated when she refused.

"I need to shower, Michael. I need to try to clean myself out," she said and he didn't understand. He shook his head and tried to push her into the bed but she still refused. "Michael I need to shower." He looked down at her a few moments in thought. He wasn't sure what to do.

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Charlotte looked up into the white mask and tried to focus on the eyes. She would feel so much better if she could see his face. He clearly felt more comfortable with it on or else he would have removed it when they were alone. Still, the white mask was the face of the killer; his eyes at least gave her a small glimpse at the man. She reached out and touched his hand and judging by his reaction her touch pleased him.

"I'm not going anywhere Michael," she told him and rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. He finally acquiesced and let her find the upstairs bathroom. He followed her silently as she walked into the bathroom. Since she was already naked she didn't feel the need to ask him to leave. She didn't think he would even if she did.

She pulled the curtain back to hide from his eyes and scrubbed her body. Despite knowing it wouldn't do any good she did her best to get all of his semen out of her. After she was done she let the hot water spray over her as she tried to think.

This situation was completely and horrifyingly disturbing. She couldn't help but remember that she was in another person's house, a person that Michael had murdered right in front of her. Her head began to ache and exhaustion overtook her. She almost wished she had let Michael put her to bed like he wanted to do.

She slid down the wall of the shower and sat down a moment, trying to give her aching legs some relief. She didn't know how she was going to get out of this situation. She didn't even know what outcome she wanted. She certainly wanted to be able to continue treated Michael, but she couldn't see a way she could get out of this and have that be an option. Especially if anyone found out what had just conspired between them.

The warm spray felt good against her bruised skin and she took a deep breath. Slowly, and without any conscious knowledge, she began to fall asleep.

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3:45 pm

Michael became impatient and he walked toward the shower. When he pushed aside the curtain he looked down Lottie and stared at her a moment. The small rise and fall of her breasts told him she was alive. He looked over her small body a few moments and felt a strange urge to have her in his arms. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to know she wasn't going anywhere.

He turned off the water and picked up his dripping doctor. She stirred away only slightly and pressed her damp face into his hard chest. Taking a nearby towel and awkwardly patting her dry she came in and out of consciousness. When he got back to the bed he did not immediately put her under the covers but instead sat down. He kept her body close to his and looked down at her face.

A powerful wave of possessiveness flowed through his veins and settled in the center of his chest. His arms tightened around her as he felt the emotion surge through him and his forehead knitted together. He wanted to be inside of her again. He felt the hardness returning between his legs and his hold on her tightened even more. His hold became crushing and he watched Lottie's groggy eyes open up and look at him.

"That hurt's Michael," she said but he didn't know what she meant. In an attempt to calm her he squeezed her in his arms. "Too tight Michael, too tight!"

He immediately let go of her and she rubbed her arms. His body tensed up under her and he felt anger at her and himself for the situation. He felt his anger flare and grow but the soft touch of her hand on his arm calmed him.

"You're too strong to hold me that tight," she said and he understood. He decided it was an appropriate time to put her in bed, He pushed her in the covers and had her lay her head down on the pillows. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and waited for her to fall asleep.

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Charlotte waited for Michael to leave before she shut her eyes but he never did. Instead, he sat down staring at her, his blank white face giving her nothing to work with. Perhaps that was why he kept the mask on around her. It might be his way of preventing her from reading his facial expressions. Or perhaps he merely felt more secure with the mask on.

Either way it was detrimental to her understanding of the situation. All she had were his eyes, and at the moment they were telling her nothing. Slowly, she closed her eyes. Every few moments or so she would open her eyes and look up at her captor. He seemed quite content watching her and eventually to time between her opening her eyes grew longer and longer until eventually they stayed closed.

As she drifted off the sleep she wondered if Michael would still be watching her when she woke up.


	5. Chapter 5

October 16th

9:25 am

When Charlotte's eyes opened the first thing she saw was Michael sitting on the side of the bed and staring at her. She started slightly at seeing him but soon calmed down. Michael's head tilted to the side and he looked at her patiently. Charlotte pulled the blankets up over her to shield her naked body from his view and he didn't seem to mind. Her head was still throbbing and her body ached all over. She was sure her back was covered in bruises from their earlier activities on the hard wooden staircase and she still had a large bump and bruise on the top of her head.

"Michael, I need something to wear," she said but he did nothing. "I need clothing Michael."

He got up from the bed and went to the drawers on the far side of the bedroom. Charlotte shook her head at him as he offered her some clothes. She couldn't wear the clothes of the man Michael had killed hours earlier. Not only did she have a moral and ethical problem with it, it was just creepy. Michael looked down at the clothes she had rejected a moment before putting them back in the dressed. When he grabbed the zipper of his jumpsuit and pulled it down she had a terrifying moment of thought that he planned on taking her again. She didn't think her body could take another go at the moment, and while there were no doubts he would want her again she had hoped it wouldn't have been for a few days.

She pushed herself back into the headboard and was going to ask Michael to wait when he took the blue t-shirt he wore off and handed it to her. She took the warm blue fabric from his hands and her eyes glided over his bare torso before he zipped the jumpsuit back up. Doing her best to keep herself covered she slid the warm shirt over her head. It only came down to mid thigh but she was satisfied with it. It was better than being naked or wearing the murdered red neck's clothing.

"Thank you, Michael," she said and ran her hand through her dry hair. Noting the lack of dampness in her hair it occurred to her that she must have been asleep for quite some time. More than twelve hours at least. She took her elastic she had placed around her wrist and tied up her hair in a pony tail. Once she was done Michael pulled the blankets off of her and she gasped as the cool air hit her.

She slipped out of bed, it seemed that was what Michael wanted, and he turned and left the bedroom. Charlotte followed him and her bare feet pattered against the floor softly. When they got downstairs Charlotte was given an explanation for the cold when she saw the fire had died out.

"Michael, the fire is dead," she said but continued to follow him into the small but cozy kitchen. On the table it appeared Michael had spread out all the food the old man had in the pantry and fridge on the table. Michael motioned toward the food and then put a hand on his stomach. "You're hungry?" she asked and he nodded. Then he reached out and touched her stomach gently. "Yeah, I'm hungry too." She shivered and looked at the food. "How about this Michael, you go out and get some wood, and restart the fire to keep us warm, and I'll make us something to eat. Ok?"

Michael remained silent but turned and left. Taking the action as an affirmation Charlotte began to put the food back into the pantry and fridge. To hungry to make a large dinner Charlotte took out two hamburgers and found a pan to cook them in. From the kitchen stove she could see into the backyard perfectly. She stared out the window as the hamburgers cooked. Her eyes scanned the tree line looking for any places she could easily slip into.

The forest looked dense but she doubted she would be able to get far on foot. Her only hope was that car. She still didn't think Michael took the keys out of the car. The door was probably still open with the keys in the ignition. She'd wait till he was asleep and make her move. Michael would sometimes stay up for days at a time, but when he did sleep it was deeply and soundly. That would be the best time to get away. Despite Michael's lack of desire to kill her she still felt less than secure about her situation. She didn't understand why Michael killed, as much as that bothered her, and she didn't know what would set him off.

She was taken out of her thoughts when she saw Michael walk across the back yard. His steps were slow and steady. He was in no rush. He never was. He got to the pile of stacked wood at the far side of the yard and looked from side to side at the stack of wood. She flipped over the burgers but didn't take her eyes away from the serial killer. He grabbed four, large pieces of dried wood from the stack and turned. He must have seen her in the window because he stopped. Even though she could not see his eyes she knew he was looking at her. She looked down to check the burgers and when she looked up he was gone.

She shivered violently as the cool air wafted over her bare legs and arms. Michael's shirt was still warm from his body but the house had gotten so cold it made little difference. She would have to ask Michael for her jeans back. They were the only article of clothing she had that he hadn't sliced through with his knife.

She entered the small living area with the two hamburgers and saw Michael kneeling in front of the fire staring into the growing flames. His head was tilted to the side as he watched the flames lick the top of the fire place. If he heard Charlotte enter the room he gave no indication and remained kneeling as she placed the food on the table and sat down on the couch. His shoulders were set back straight and Charlotte licked her dry lips.

"Michael, I have some food," she said and Michael stayed kneeling. You never knew what you were going to get with Michael Myers. Some days back at the hospital he had been responsive, never vocally, but responsive none the less. Other days he was shut down and reserved. He seemed to be in one of those moods now and Charlotte took a tentative bite of her hamburger. At the hospital she had been able to push Michael without fear of retaliation. He had always been bound and incapacitated. Charlotte finished the hamburger and curled her bare lags underneath her on the couch. She was beginning to grow warmer thanks to the fire but she felt horribly vulnerable in just the large shirt. "You should eat," she waited a moment before adding a soft, "Michael?"

He responded to her most often when she used his name. He seemed to like hearing it and so she had taken to using it whenever she spoke to him. He slowly rose from the floor and turned toward her. He looked down at the table and the hamburger she had made for him. Charlotte kept herself from shying away when he sat down next to her. She watched as he reached out and took the plate in his hand and brought it to his lap. She stared at his hands as he did so. His hands, to her, were what demonized and humanized him. How many people had he killed with those hands? And yet, as she looked at them, just his hands, they looked so normal, like they would be on anyone else's body, that she felt an ache of loss for the man he could have been.

One of his hands touched the burger before he turned his back to her on the couch. Once his body was pivoted so she could not see his face he brought up his hands and removed his mask. Once she saw his short, but thick hair she felt better. His hair was the color of a deep, rich chestnut that matched his eyes beautifully. She had always thought it a shame such a handsome man could be so broken. She reached out timidly to touch his shoulder.

"You don't have to hide your face from me, Michael," she said but the moment she touched him he jerked away and the plate in his lap clattered onto the floor, the food along with it. Charlotte pulled back abruptly and bit her lip. "I'm sorry Michael."

Michael silently reached down for his hamburger and brought it back up to his lap. Occasionally, with a turn of his head as he chewed she would see his ear or the outline of his strong jaw. He was careful to keep his face from her though and Charlotte was at a loss as to why. She had seen him countless times before. She'd sat across him for two hours every day for nearly a month. He wouldn't be thinking ahead of the possibility of her IDing him. Even if he was he would know that she already knew his face. There were pictures of him at the hospital taken during intake and every year on his birthday.

A possibility was that he was self conscious, but sociopaths wouldn't have those types of worries. She attributed it more to a mixture of Schizotypal personality disorder and anti-social personality disorder. Signs of which he displayed for both. He couldn't gage reactions of people or understand more complex emotions and would feel uncomfortable or anxious during interactions with other people. It was probably why he preferred wearing a mask. His way of hiding himself from the world.

When he was done eating he put the plate on the table and pulled the mask over his face. When he turned around to look at her, his eyes conveyed to her his next course of action, clearly, absolutely, and incontestably.

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11:30 am

After eating Michael turned to look at his doctor. He felt the hardness returning between his legs and he wanted to relive the experience of yesterday. He reached out and touched the smooth, soft skin of her calf. He felt her start underneath his hand but it meant nothing to him. His one-track mind was focused on the feel of her skin beneath his hand.

He dragged his hand up her calf and stopped at her knee. He felt the bottom of his shirt and pushed it up slowly. The sight of her in his shirt pleased him. It made a small little burn in the center of his chest that he couldn't explain and his fingers tightened around her thigh. In a split second decision he pulled on her leg and she slid down onto the couch. His shirt bunched up around her exposing her from her belly button down. His eyes raked over the creamy white skin and his mouth went dry. He'd always wondered why humans took part in the physical act. It had always seemed to him pointless. It put them in such a vulnerable position and he had never thought the pleasure worth the risk. Now he understood.

With no desire to wait any longer he pulled on the zipper of his jumpsuit revealing a small glimpse of his lean body. Being so immobile he had always run the risk of becoming soft and overweight but he seemed to have a naturally fast metabolism. That was what he had heard the doctors say anyway.

When he reached into the mechanic uniform he pulled out his hard thick erection and placed it against his doctor again. Her warmth seemed to beckon him to her and he pushed inside in a single hard thrust. His eyes closed tightly and he took in a deep breath. Her small hands grabbed the front of his jumpsuit and her knuckles grazed his chest. Her hands were cold against his skin and he pushed himself further down onto her. He couldn't get close enough to her. He wanted more.

He hips bucked against her with unsteady thrusts varying in level of force. Moans left her throat that he couldn't place and so he continued. She didn't push him away, which would have only angered him, and she indeed was pulling him closer. Again, he felt himself overcome with an incredibly strong blast of pleasure and afterward he felt spent. He let his weight relax slightly on top of his doctor, still mindful of her small body, and closed his eyes.

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Michael's budding habit of remaining on top of her after sex was not as painful as she lay on the soft couch. The pressure of his body weight was not painful and she made no move to nudge him off of her. After a few moments she timidly reached up and placed her hands on his back and rubbed slightly. She hoped to build an emotional attachment with him that would make it less likely he would kill her. As it was she seemed to have done so at the hospital, at least at a minor level. He hadn't killed her after all and she doubted that when he kidnapped her it was with the intention of sex. His head lowered down to the couch next to her head and the fake hair of the mask brushed against her cheek.

All the while careful that Michael could not mistake her intentions; she reached up and touched the hot skin of his neck. She made sure to steer clear of the mask. He would react violently if he thought she was trying to remove it. Instead, she gently ran her finger nails over the warm skin in a soothing gesture. It seemed to have the intended consequence because she heard a soft hum coming from Michael's throat.

When Michael had first began touching her she almost found it amusing. Men were all the same, even psychopaths. Warmth, food and sex. That was all they wanted. Well, warmth, food and sex…and sleep. Hopefully that would be his next step. It would make sense to her that this would be his next course of action. After all, with no one to kill, (except her), it would make sense for him to see to his basest human needs.

"Are you tired, Michael?" she asked him and he did nothing. She continued to stroke the back of his neck and turned her face toward his mask. Her skin touched the cold rubber and she bit her lip. "I think you should sleep." He pulled back and looked into her eyes a moment. She tried to hold eye contact but struggled. His eyes were questioning and his head tilted to the side. A few moments passed before he nodded and pulled out of her. He placed himself back into his jumpsuit and got up from the couch. He went into the kitchen and she heard rummaging around for a few moments. When he returned he had with him a roll of duct tape and Charlotte shook her head.

"Michael, you don't need to tie me up, please." He did not react to her plea and he grabbed her wrists. She tried to pull away from him but he yanked her back and she almost fell off the couch. When several layers of duct tape were around her wrists he moved to her ankles but Charlotte pulled her feet away from him and got onto her knees on the couch. Michael hesitated and remained still when she placed her bound wrists at Michael's chest. As she kneeled, Charlotte could feel Michael's seed dripping down her legs and onto the couch.

"Let me put my jeans on Michael. It will hurt too much on my skin. Plus, it's still so cold."

Michael looked behind him before turning and walking out of the room. Charlotte tried to wipe her thigh clean with her bound hands but found that only made the problem worse. While cleaning herself off she tried to fight down the growing fear of getting pregnant with Michael Myer's child. The thought was terrifying. Michael most likely didn't even think of the possibility. When Michael came back he had her jeans in his hands and Charlotte let out a breath of relief.

She struggled to put them on herself and eventually Michael took them from her. She helped him slide each leg into the jeans before buttoning them herself. She squeaked when he scooped her up in his arms and carried her out of the room and upstairs. He deposited her on the bed before walking around to the other side. He lay down on top of the covers, leaving his boats and mask on. He lay flat on his back and closed his eyes.

Charlotte watched him fall into sleep and let a deep sigh escape her. She pulled at her wrists but there was no way she was going to get out of the tape. She sagged against the bed in defeat. She was going to have to be patient if she wanted to get out of this alive. No escape attempts for a while, and then maybe he would stop tying her up. Then she would make her move.

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	6. Chapter 6

Michael lay in bed staring out the nearby bedroom window for a long time before turning over. He stared out at the orange and yellow leaves and watched them slowly fall to the ground. He had loved looking out the window when he had been younger. He had been content to sit in his room and look out at the world beyond Smith's Grove Sanatorium. It had given his mind a place to go and days would blur into one another and it was a blink of an eye before his next birthday. He would think about a lot of things. His sister Judith, the baby sister he had left behind, and his parents. His parents stopped visiting him after only a few months. He didn't know why they had stopped coming, only that one week he never saw them again.

In the beginning he used to think about playing with his sisters or other family. Soon though those memories began to fade, and by the time he was eleven he remembered little of his life. All he knew was the hospital, the doctors and nurses. Loomis took the longest to give up on him, but like everyone else, he eventually did. One day he came in and told him he would be moving to a new room. He was told how great it would be and that he would like it much better. When he got into the room the first thing he saw was that it was lacking a window. That was only a few days before Loomis told him that he would be requesting the court upon his thirteenth birthday, to maintain his current incarceration.

Like he did with everything else, Michael remained silent, but that didn't mean, contrary to Loomis' belief, that he wasn't thinking it over. The only person who ever gave him any credit for personal, high thought was Lottie. She told him from the beginning she knew he was in his mind somewhere and that it was up to him to speak to her. She had asked so many times for him to speak and he had considered it, but eventually decided not to. He wasn't sure he even remembered how. It had been nearly thirty years. He knew he could make noise, his vocal cords worked fine, and he understood and could form English thoughts, but he didn't know if he would vocalize them.

When he was brought back from the hospital the first time Loomis stopped seeing him all together. He tried to keep him locked up from afar. He had a long list of doctors, most lasting little more than a month. They were all like Loomis though. Expect for Lottie. She was special. She used his name. She took care of him.

She took care of him back at the hospital, turning his heat on, getting more blankets, giving him the TV. And now she took even better care of him. Thinking of how well she took care of him brought an aching stiffness between his legs and he brought a hand down to push down on it so it would go away. When it persisted he took his eyes away from the window and rolled over toward Lottie. When he turned he saw the other side of the bed empty. Putting his hand down he could feel the comforter was cold and he wasted little time. Standing up he made his way slowly, but with intent, toward the door. He needed to get to the care. That was where she went last time she tried to leave him.

Before he could get to the door he heard a loud bang, followed by a quieter thud. It came from the adjoining bathroom and he waited, his eyes glued to the door. Half a second later the door knob turned and slowly swung open to reveal Lottie on the ground. She pushed on the door with her bound hands, and scooted herself out of the bathroom.

"Fucking door," he heard her muffled whisper and he tilted his head. "Fucking tape..fucking toilet…fucking jeans."

As she started to make her way across the room on the floor she looked up toward the bed. Michael saw the look of panic on her face as she saw the empty piece of furniture and a moment later her eyes on her on. Her soft, pink lips parted and her eyes widened in fear.

"I wasn't trying to leave Michael. I promise!" she cried and Michael looked back toward the bed. "I had to go to the bathroom and you were sleeping for so long."

No longer angry Michael walked toward her and scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to the bed.

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It didn't take long to know what Michael was after. His hands pulled at the tape around her ankles until it was off and he quickly went to tug on her jeans. She helped slip them off, which was difficult with bound wrists and watched silently as he unzipped his jumpsuit. Her jeans were discarded on the floor and, lacking underwear, Charlotte was open to his gaze. It was during times like this that she wished most desperately that he wasn't wearing a mask. She'd love to know if he were acting on pure primal instinct, or if there was a deeper sexual attraction in his eyes. Either way she knew she couldn't fight him off, even if she wanted too. He was far too strong to over power, and he were likely to kill her if he didn't think she was so compliant.

The part of her that was a clinical psychologist felt a small ache of guilt in her chest at the thought of gaining Michael's trust and then leaving him…in a sense, betraying him. However, the part of her that wanted to survive outweighed her ethical duty to a patient and she felt that under the circumstances, he had given up that right. Still, so much of her time had been spent on Michael that she had, against all advice a criminal psychologist could get, grew obsessed, infatuation even, with Michael Myers.

She was even disgusted, as she knew full well she should have been, when Michael pushed his impressive erection inside of her and let out a deep grunt. Instead, other than the thought of how good he felt, she focused on the fact that that grunt was probably, in all likelihood, the closest she would ever come to hearing him speak. That had been one of her goals when first becoming his doctor. She wanted so badly to hear him speak, and be the one that got him to do it. However, that seemed unlikely now. It'd been nearly thirty years. She was silly to assume he would speak again. He thrust in and out of her, fast and hard and his grip on her hips was bruising. She let out a moan and his head, which was angled downward, as if he were watching himself push in and out of her, snapped up at her.

"It feels good, Michael," she told him and his hips, which had slowed slightly, sped back up. Charlotte was disturbed with how much she enjoyed sex with Michael. It was almost animalistic in nature. There was no foreplay, which she hated to admit she was contemplating teaching him if she were to be his sex outlet for the next few weeks…months even. He just thrust into her, not stopping until his goal was accomplished. His thrusts were hard and fast, his grip on her firm. His pants seemed louder as they collided with the rubber mask and she could feel his thrusts change as he neared completion.

He spilled himself inside her, not considering the possible consequences of doing so. He quickly rezipped his jumpsuit, took a step back from Charlotte and turned to walk away. Charlotte, taking a moment to recover, threw her jeans back on and followed him. She caught up with him as he was entering the living room and watched him add a log. When he turned to look at her she had the overwhelming and unbelievable feeling that he was looking for her approval. She smiled at him and nodded.

"Thank you Michael. It was getting cold," she said and he went to sit down on the chair. His eyes stared at her hard behind the mask and she went to sit down on the couch. She crossed her legs and bit her lip. "Michael, can I ask you something?"

He tilted his head to the side but other than that did nothing. Charlotte sighed and nodded.

"Ok, so. How much do you know about...sex Michael?" she asked and he stayed still. "You know that when a man and woman have sex, and don't use protection, that the woman can get pregnant."

She waited and licked her lips.

"I need you to perhaps, let me go get something to make sure that doesn't happen," she said and she looked at him. She touched her lips with her hand and thought of the best way to put it. "Condoms Michael? They-"

She cut off and tried to think about whether he would even know what those were. He had been hospitalized since he was six. She highly doubted he ever had sex ed.

"You put them on your penis. It stops your semen from entering me," she said and felt her cheeks turn pink. "A baby would be bad right now Michael. We wouldn't be able to move as quickly if we need to run away."

Michael tilted his head to the side and Charlotte bit her lip again.

"If I get pregnant you can't touch me anymore," she said. She flinched when he reached out, his knees violently hitting the coffee table and he grabbed her wrist in a bruising grip. "I don't want that to happen Michael. See, I want you to touch me, but if I get pregnant I can't."

He looked at her and she could see his eyes, wide and questioning but also hard and austere. He looked over at the stairs and stood up. Charlotte was about to get up and follow him but he pushed down on her shoulders and she sat back down on the couch. She chewed on her bottom lip for what felt like a long time before she heard Michael back on the stairs. She looked up toward the stores and prepared to speak but her words died on her lips.

Michael came around the corner in a pair of jeans that were a size to big and a large flannel shirt. His mask was in his hands and walked toward her with a blank expression. He stopped just a few feet in front of her and held the mask out for her. She took it in her hand and lowered it too her lap. In his other hand came the roll of duck tape and Charlotte tried to scoot away from him. She never got the chance to protest because a piece of duck tape was placed over her mouth. Her wrists were shortly after bound, followed by her ankles. She was not surprised by his actions, but she was shocked when he picked her up and carried her to the closet. She protested against the tape but Michael made no response.

His face was blank and his eyes were void of emotion. He looked her over before pulling away and closing the closet door, leaving her alone and bound in the dark closet.

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The man's clothing was uncomfortable and itchy and he felt open and vulnerable without his mask. He made sure Lottie couldn't leave before he got into the car to leave. She was talking about not letting him touch her. That must mean she might try to leave. He certainly wasn't going to give her the chance. He was in the car for nearly an hour before coming to the nearest convenient store and he walked in stiffly. He passed a newspaper which had his name in the headline, not that he saw. He was on a mission.

He wandered around the store for nearly a half hour. A man had asked him what he needed. Michael's response was to stare before turning and walking away. Finally he found the sections with the condoms. Loomis had attempted to teach him to read for the first few years of their sessions. Michael had listened, he had paid attention, and he had learned. Loomis would never know that though. He had never given him any indication he knew what was going on.

He picked up two boxes in each hand and frowned.

"Need some help buddy?" a young man, probably around seventeen asked. "I'd go with these."

He pointed at another box on the rack and smiled. Michael lowered the hands that held the other two boxes and looked at the other.

"Chicks dig um, know what I'm sayin'?" he laughed and nudged Michael in the ribs playfully. Michael turned to look at him before picking up the box. If girls liked them then Charlotte would too. He wished he knew what they were.

He paid with the dead man's money. As he got to the cashier the man tried to make small talk. Michael looked him right in the eye but said absolutely nothing. The cashier immediately quieted down and handled him in receipt and bag.

"Have a good day," he said and Michael looked back at him as he got to the door. He had the overwhelming, burning desire to kill the man, but he kept himself in check. He couldn't draw attention just yet. Not while Charlotte was back at home in the closet.

He got back into the car and sped back to the house. He was proud of his purchase and wanted to know Lottie that if she asked for something he would give it to her. As long as she stayed and did what he wanted. As he drove home his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. For the first time in his life, he was excited.

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	7. Chapter 7

**October 16****th**

Charlotte heard the sound of Michael's boots on the ground before the door was unlocked and pulled open. She was scooped up into his arms and carried up the stars and into the bedroom. Her head rested on his shoulder as she tried to wake herself up some. She had fallen asleep about an hour after Michael left and, luckily, remained asleep during his absence. She thought she might have gone completely crazy if she had to wait over three hours alone, bound, and gagged, in a dark, cramped closet.

By the time they got into the bedroom she took her head from Michael's shoulders and looked up at him. He seemed too focused to care that his mask was off and he was not wearing his comfortable jumpsuit. She knew what he wanted the moment she was placed down on the bed. He handed her the two boxes of condoms he had purchased and waited, staring down at her with dark, but vacant eyes.

"These are good, Michael," she said with a small smile. He snatched the box back from her and ripped it open, pulling out one of the small packets. He frowned, and she once again saw a light spark up in his eyes. He held it in his fingers, turning it around as he looked it over with a tilt of his head. She watched him as thought swirled behind his eyes and bit her bottom lip. She could see the bulge in the jeans he was wearing and reached out timidly.

Preemptively attempting to please him she rubbed her palm over his fabric clad erection. He jumped slightly, startled by the sudden pleasure, but she saw his jaw clench in pleasure. He looked down at me and handed me the condom. I unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down enough to remove his erection. His breathing became harder but she could see the change from arousal to frustration as she rolled the condom over his member. He frowned deeply and shoved her hands away, trying to take the condom off. She shook my head and tried to roll it back up. He let her, and she pulled the top of the head so it would collect his semen but he growled at her.

"Michael, you need to wear it when we have sex," She told him but he shook his head. She realized he was not going to agree to wear the condom and she panicked slightly. She could not get pregnant by this man. She could not unleash that onto the world. Who knows what type of mental or social defects the child might get from its father. Normally she would have no bias against the mentally ill, for it was her life's work to try and help and understand them, but she could not bear Michael Myer's child.

"Michael if you agree to wear these for me I will do something for you, something that feels good. That's fair right? We will help each other," she tried to calm him. "Let me show you."

She removed the condom, wiping the spermicide on her pants, and pushed him away gently. He backed up and she slipped to her knees on the floor before him. She stroked him a moment, watched his eyes flutter close and licked her lips. The moment she took him into her mouth his hands went to her hair. The grip he had on her hair was painful and for a few moments she thought he might rip the follicles right form her scalp.

He moved his hips, treating her mouth as he would another part of her body, holding her head steady and squeezing his eyes shut. When her tongue fluttered against the bottom of her shaft she heard him groan. She wished so badly he would speak, she might die happy knowing she got Michael Myers to speak, but he only groaned. She tried to make the experience extra pleasurable for him, using her tongue and hands, licking as well as sucking. She wanted him to enjoy it so she could use it as a bartering chip, and judging by the noises he was making and the grip he hand on her face he was enjoying it.

Amazingly enough, as this was going on she wondered if she would publish this aspect of her experience if she were to survive this. The cons seemed to outweigh the pros, since she might not ever be taken seriously again in the medical community; even if she said she was raped by him. But if she lied and said it was really rape that would change the entire medical understanding of his psyche. For it to mean anything she would have to speak the truth, and bartering your body to a Schizotypal sociopath was not only embarrassing, but would hardly inspire academic confidence.

When he finished he shuddered and pulled out of her mouth. She put his seed out on the carpet, never having been a fan of swallowing. He wiped his forward and removed the pants, finding his jumpsuit and putting it back on.

"Please don't put the mask on," She called but he ignored her and pulled the rubber over his head. "Michael did you like that?"

He did not nod, or make any sign that he heard her, but she knew he had. She touched his hand, pulling him over to sit on the bed with her.

"If you agree to wear these when we have sex, I will do that for you whenever you want," She told him with a soft smile. She touched his hand, rough and scarred from his last rampage. "I just want to make you happy."

She did not know if he could feel happy or sad, but some sort of contentment might keep her alive. He nodded at her slowly and turned to his left. He reached out for the box and pulled out a wrapped condom, handing it to Charlotte. She smiled at his acceptance to her deal. He grabbed her wrist and pushed it closer to her face and she frowned.

"Already?"

She looked down to see that he indeed was once again ready.

"Alright, Michael," she told him and ripped into the condom wrapper. The moment she rolled it on she was pushed onto her back, and Michael climbed on top.

* * *

"Michael, are you hungry?" Charlotte asked after a few minutes. It was probably the closest to cuddling Michael would ever get and he did not seem to want to release her. Charlotte had laid there a long time letting him keep a tight hold on her, but she had not eaten in some time and her stomach was beginning to protest loudly.

"Michael I need to go eat, alright?"

She pulled out of his arms and he released her but reluctantly.

"I want to do some laundry as well," she told him as she walked down the stairs. She could hear him following her. "I would like to take another shower too."

She did not expect him to say anything but looked back at him as if he would. He merely stared back at her. When she got into the kitchen she looked into the pantry. There were some soup cans but little else, and she grabbed two to prepare for their meal. She heated it up on the stove and poured some out for Michael. He turned his back to her as he ate and she was once again thoughtful as to why he would want to hide from her. It was strange. They had sex, shared intimate moments, and she had spent months viewing his face previously, and yet he still wished to hide from her. She would have to mention that in her book as well… that is, if she ever got the chance to write it.

Michael finished first and pulled the mask back over his face. He placed his empty bowl in front of her and walked over to the far wall where a calendar was hanging by a nail. She watched him with a furrowing brow as he reached up and ripped a square from the top month. His body was tense and stiff as he did it, and for few long, silent moments he stared at the calendar. When Charlotte finished she placed their bowls in the sink and walked over to him timidly.

"What are you looking at?" she asked him. She looked at the calendar and her mouth turned dry. "Why are you doing that?"

He must have been doing it since they arrived, but she had not noticed it until now. The calendar days had been ripped to the current date, or what she assumed was the current date, as if he were counting down till Christmas, only now he was counting down till Halloween. She had a terrifying feeling that that was how long she had to live, but she doubted Michael would keep her around simply to kill her on the anniversary of his sister's murder and his recent rampage, but it was possible.

She placed her hand on Michael's arm and made a note to encourage non-sexual physical contact. It would create and strengthen an emotional bond that went beyond sexual intimacy and might save her life in the long run. Michael looked away from the calendar and down at her.

"Michael? You aren't going to hurt anybody are you?" she asked gently and he only stared at her. "You aren't going to hurt _me_? Are you?"

He shook his head. I gently caressed his arm.

"Thank you Michael," she whispered. "Michael, do you want to shave? I noticed earlier your beard is beginning to grow in."

He was still a moment and the raised his hand to his face. He slid his hand under the white, rubber mask and touched his cheek, rubbing his aw and feeling the growing stubble. He nodded and she gave him a small smile. He followed her up to the bedroom and she looked for a razor. She bit her bottom lip hard when she saw that the man that lived here before only used a straight edge razor. She did not think Michael would know how to shave with a straight edge razor and despite the dangerous situation she was in, she still considered him her patient, and could not in good conscious allow him to slit his own throat by accident.

She had watched ex-boyfriend shave using a straightedge razor, he had always liked the smoother shave and the old-fashion feel of it. She thought it was interested and had watched him many times before they broke up, but she had never done it herself and was unsure if she would be able to do it without shredding Michael's face. She also doubted Michael would let her anywhere near his throat with a sharp blade. She picked up the razor and opened it, gliding the blade over her finger tip to check for sharpness. It was sharp and ready for use, but still she hesitated.

"Michael, I don't think you will be able to shave. It is very sharp and dangerous this way," she told him and handed him the blade to look at. He looked it over and removed his mask, raising it to his cheek.

"No, Michael, that will hurt really badly if you don't wet your face and put some cream on it," she told him, stopping him by grabbing his wrist. "You will hurt yourself."

He looked at the blade, his eyes twinkling. She frowned when he handed the blade back to her, blinking at her expectantly. She was amazed at the show of trust and but her bottom lip.

"You want me to do it?" she asked him and he nodded. She reached up and checked his cheek for the length of stubble, suddenly regretting her suggestion that he shave. He was shaved by attendants in the hospital, and had never shaved himself, but she was sure with a safety razor he would have done just fine. "I might cut you by accident."

He said and did nothing. He only stared.

"Alright, Michael, let me set everything up," she told him and grabbed a towel from the cabinet. She turned the faucet on as hot as it could go and soaked the towel in the hot water. Luckily, as the towel soaked in the hot water she was able to prepare the shaving cream, which had directions directly next to it.

"Just my luck," she murmured to herself as she set the bowl of shaving cream on the counter. She took the hot towel from the water, hissing and wincing at the hot water that landed on her hands. Once the towel was cool enough to touch she turned toward Michael.

"Now, I need to press this to your face… I'm not sure what it does but I know you have to do it," she told him. She always liked to tell her patients what she planned on doing before she did it so they did not feel snuck up on or tricked in anyway. It helped develop trust between them, but she wished now that she could offer Michael a bit more information. She pressed the towel to his cheeks and jaw, warming the skin. She waited until it was cool and put it on the table.

"Here, sit on the toilet," she said putting the seat down. He sat down and she lathered up his face. "I swear if I cut you I don't mean it."

She told him as she took the blade. He only stared once again.

"Are you sure you want to shave? You could go to where you got the condoms and get a safety blade and shave yourself."

Nothing.

"OK then," she breathed. "With the grain first pass."

She made the entire first pass to the face without once cutting up, but hesitated before moving to his throat. Instead she re-lathered his face and did the second and third pass flawlessly. Her hands were shaking when she moved to his throat, and his eyes on her, watching her intently, did not help ease her nerves. The first pass on his neck the blade went in at the wrong angle, nicking his skin. She saw blood begin to seep form his neck and panicked, but Michael had not even flinched.

"I'm so sorry, Michael," she told him and pressed a rag to the little nick. "OK… here we go."

She brought the blade over his throat and was suddenly very aware that she could kill Michael right then and there if she wanted too. She could get the keys, get into the car, get help, and make millions with her story. But each time she dragged the blade over his skin she found herself unable to add the needed pressure. When she looked up from his throat to his eyes it was not that he was looking at her that surprised and frightened her. He was always looking at her it seemed. It was the look in his eyes.

It was perhaps the most emotion she had ever seen in him since their first day. His eyes were… smiling. It was like he was amused, like he could see her struggle and she was overcome with the feeling that he was testing her. It was a risky test, if she failed this one he was dead, but it seemed like the only explanation for the look in his eyes. There was a coldness in it, a smug amusement almost. The blade froze as she stared into his brown eyes. It was only his eyes that gave her this impression. His face was vacant, emotionless, stony.

She swallowed hard and looked back down, shaving the rest of his neck as best she could. She nicked him a few more times, but nothing to badly and patted his face down with a cold cloth to close up his pores when she had finished. When she finished he moved to the mirror and looked over the small cuts on his neck. Charlotte let out a deep breath as she watched him, but her hands were still trembling.

Michael turned his head and froze. He heard the car before she did, but after a moment there was the undeniable sound of a car coming up the dirt road. Charlotte reacted in a heartbeat running out of the bathroom and down the stairs. Michael took the time to put his mask back on but immediately went after her. Before she could let out a scream for help or of warning he had his arms wrapped around her, his hand on her face.

His large hand covered her mouth and his forefinger and thumb pinched her nose, cutting off her oxygen. As her eyesight faded and her world turned to black, she realized that she might have just proven she would not kill Michael, but she had also proven that he could far from trust her.

A/N:

It's been a long wait I know, but thank you to everyone who is still reading this story! I simply could not leave it unfinished, so I hope to be updating regularly again.

Thanks for any reviews!


	8. Chapter 8

**October 16****th**

Michael gently placed Lottie's unconscious body into the closet as he heard the car door shut. He took his time placing her onto the ground, moving the dead man's boots out of the way so she would not be uncomfortable. He made sure he rested her head down without injuring her in anyway and then stood, slipping into the other room. He heard boots on the porch and a man's voice call out.

"Bill!"

Michael calmly walked into the kitchen, retrieving a large knife from the block. Whoever the new comer was had their own set of keys and let themselves in. He called out again and walked down the hall looking around with a frown settling on his old wrinkled face.

"Billy boy!" he called again. "I came to drop of your whiskey! Come one you still sleeping?"

He walked into the kitchen and placed a brown paper bag down on the table.

"Come on, wake up you mangy dog –"

The knife poked out through the front of his chest and he looked down with wide eyes. He never had the chance to turn around and see the white mask of death that stared at him from behind. The knife was pulled out of his chest and he fell to the ground with a loud thud. Michael stared down at him a moment, angry that this man would invade his space and make his Lottie try to run away from him again.

He nudged the man with his foot and then looked at what he had put on the counter. He pulled the glass bottle out of the bag and looked at it a moment. He wondered for a moment if Lottie would like it and placed it back on the table carefully. He dragged the body into the background so Lottie would not see it when she woke up. She was good, and something like this would bother her.

He knew she would be awake soon; her body just needed to recover from its lack of oxygen, and so once the body was in the backyard he went back to the closet and brought her into the living room. He bound her wrists and ankles with duck tape and propped her up, pillows behind her head. When he was sure she was comfortable he took the dead man's shovel and went out the bury the new dead man next to his friend. When he was finished he went to the new dead man's car and looked inside for things Lottie might like.

Michael had never needed or wanted much, but he knew that Lottie did. He normally would have been quite angry that she tried to run from him again but the fact that she had not sliced his throat when she had the chance, when the sharp blade was so close to severing his most important arteries, kept his anger at bay. He found more bottles like the other one in the car and grabbed them, carrying them into the house. As he walked back into the living room he could see Lottie awake, eyes wide and tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Michael, I'm sorry, please don't kill me now, not after everything. Please don't kill me, I'm so sorry," she pleaded to him. He remained still, watching her. He frowned under his mask. He knew enough of her that she was sad, that the contorting of her face, the tears leaking from her eyes, and the short, hiccupped breaths meant she was in distress. He had always struggled to understand people, why they did the things they did, why certain things made them feel a certain way, but he had been around Lottie enough to know when she was in distress.

He did not like it.

It caused a pit in his stomach, a tightening in his chest. He went into the kitchen and grabbed one of the bottles and brought it back to her. He held it up to her and she let out a laugh. He felt better. That was what people did when they were happy.

"I could use some of that," she whispered and he placed it into her lap. He took the knife he had killed the new dead man with, still caked with blood, and brought it up. Her eyes widened and she jerked backwards, the bottle falling to the floor and shattering, spilling a strange smelling liquid onto the floor. She became sad again and Michael was confused. She spilled his gift on the floor and now she was angry when she was just happy. He felt annoyance and anger as he reached out and grabbed onto her wrists. He cut through the duct tape on her wrists and ankles. When he tore it away he waited.

"I thought you were going to kill me," she breathed, wiping her tears away from her cheeks. He understood then and he was no longer angry. He went back to feeling what he always felt. Nothing. Nothing for everything, that is, except his Lottie.

"It's a shame," she said after a few moments. He looked down and saw her hands trembling. "I could have used that."

Michael looked down at the broken glass and remembered the other bottles. He left her alone, confident in the fact that she would only make a move if someone else was around. He came back in with an identical, but opened, bottle and handed it to Lottie. She laughed again, but it was not like her normal laugh, not the laugh she had back at the hospital. It was shaky and soft.

"Thank you, Michael," she breathed and took a large, deep swig.

* * *

Charlotte knew enough not to drink too much, though it was tempting. After two swigs she put the bottle down and pressed herself into the couch and wrapped her arms around her legs. Her stand stopped trembling as the warmth spilled into her stomach and she eyed Michael timidly. He sat in front of her on the coffee table, staring at her silently.

She wondered if he was trying to decide to kill her or not and wracked her brain for something to say to keep his mind from murder. She sniffled, wiped her tears from her cheeks and opened her mouth to speak. She paused a moment as she spotted the blood on his hands. She licked her lips and looked at the whiskey bottle, fighting the urge to down the entire thing.

"Michael, I'm sorry for running. I panicked," she told him. His eyes blinked under the mask. "You know that you are my patient and I would never leave you for good, right? I just get scared."

She nodded at him, hoping he would understand. She wondered if, with their constant interaction the past few days if Michael was beginning to comprehend the emotions others experienced. She did not think he would ever fully be able to understand, for you needed to feel them to understand them in others, but maybe he was beginning to understand how certain people function.

She knew it was a touchy subject, that Michael had committed a horrible bloody crime as a young boy, but she sometimes thought keeping him locked away for so long was the worst thing society could have done to him. He never had a chance to even learn how to function. Michael was intelligent, she knew that, and he might have been a high functioning sociopath had he been allowed to live outside of the mental hospital. What other crimes he may have committed is impossible to know however, and despite her feelings, she would never voice that thought. It would destroy her career. Her enemies would no doubt twist her words into saying that she wanted to release Meyer's out onto the world.

"Michael," she smiled and reached out to him. She grabbed onto his hand, the one with the least amount of blood on it, and squeezed warmly with both hands. "You and I are friends right? I consider you my friend. We will stick together? Take care of each other?"

He looked down at their hands for a few moments.

"How does your face feel?" she asked and he took his bloody hand and slid it under his mask, feeling the smooth skin. He nodded stiffly.

"Good?" she asked with a small smile. He nodded again.

Charlotte did not know if it was the alcohol or the situation, but she became excited as she spoke to him. He might not have been speaking, but it was the closest to an actual conversation they had ever gotten. Previously she had been required to read his eyes, now he was actually nodding.

"Can I look around the house for a little bit?" she asked him. "I could find a radio or a T.V maybe.

Their hands were still together in his lap and he did not take his eyes away from them. Non-sexual contact was imperative. Sociopaths, which Charlotte did not think he was _entirely_, he was his own animal so to speak, were notorious for promiscuous, empty, and emotionless sex. Though Michael had never shown any sort of sex drive previous to this moment, it was still probable that sex was nothing more than a physical act that did absolutely nothing to form a bond between them. It was touching that had no sexual gratification that would form a bond with Michael… if that was even possible.

She flinched when he moved his bloody hand, resting it on top of hers. She paused a moment, her lips parting. When she saw his thumb move her heart nearly stopped. His thumb froze a moment before moving again. The movements were short and jerky but it took only a few moments for her to realize he was trying to comfort her. He was trying to stroke her hand.

She found the idea difficult to grasp, but as she watched the blood from his hand smear across her creamy skin it began to sink in.

"Thank you, Michael," she breathed and licked her lips. A moment passed and his hand began to tighten, squeezing her hand painfully. She winced as her fingers were pressed together painfully, but was too frightened tell him to stop. She did not want to make him angry or reject his show of… affection she supposed she could call it. For someone like Michael, finally attempting to show or demonstrate a normal human reaction, to be rejected might shut him down forever.

"Michael," she said and he looked up from their hands, but his hand tightened even further. He wanted to show her the emotion he was experiencing for her, but he did not know how. He did not even know what he was feeling, but he needed to show her somehow. All he could do was squeeze.

"You are too strong, Michael," she told him softly and leaned forward. "You are hurting me."

He immediately let go and withdrew his hands. She stopped him, grabbing onto his hands and trying to soothe him.

"I like it when you hold my hands. You just need to be gentle," she said gently. "I'm fragile. You know what that means? I break easily."

He looked down at their hands again.

"Like this," she said and rubbed his hands as he had tried to do in the beginning. She sat with Michael for nearly an hour as he looked at their hands, occasionally rubbing his fingers over her skin gently. He seemed to have taken what she said to him about her being fragile very seriously because not once did he apply any sort of pressure again. She felt a softness in her chest as she looked at him.

She ignored the mask, and instead looked over his broad shoulders, his strong arms, and large hands. As she watched his fingers gently rub her skin she felt a little tug of affection for him that went further than simple patient doctor relationship. It frightened her and her hands tensed under his. He looked up from their hands after she had tensed, his eyes on hers. She stared at him, looking into the eyes of who was supposed to be a soulless killer and felt an involuntary tug. She did not care what the others said, there was something _there_.

He stood abruptly, grabbing the bloody knife from the table and walking out of the room. Charlotte remained on the couch as he left. She was going to rise and follow him but was too physically and mentally exhausted to move. All she could do was stare down at her hands. As she did so her stomach tightened into knots and she felt like she was going to be sick. Her eyes were focused a long time before she stood silently, climbing the stairs and heading to the bathroom, her breathing heavy and her chest tight.

When she got to the sink she turned the water on as hot as it could possibly go, squeezing soap out onto her now blood soaked hands. She scrubbed her skin raw and only turned the temperature down when the pain from the heat became too much. But she did not stop washing her hands. She needed to get the blood off.

She saw spots in her vision, her body swayed, and her head grew light. She took her hands from the spray of the water and held herself up against the sink. When her site returned and the spinning stopped she put her hands back in the water.

She knew Michael had come to stand in the doorway, and she knew he was watching her, but she continued scrubbing her hands. Tears came to her eyes as she scrubbed at her skin, scrubbing so hard the back of her right hand began to bleed. When she did turn the water off she began to undress. She did not care that Michael was standing there. She needed to bathe.

She removed her shirt, Michael's shirt, and then her whiskey soaked jeans. When she stepped into the shower she sank to the floor and let the spray envelope her. She ignored the pain in her hands and waited, listening for Michael's breathing. When she heard him move away, his heavy boots walking down the hall, she let out a little breath.

If she were to diagnose herself, she would say she had just suffered a full blown panic attack.

She had no idea how she was going to make it through this with her own sanity intact.

* * *

a/n:

Thanks for the reviews and the alerts and follows!

Let me know what you think! I always get nervous when writing from Michael's point of view because I am afraid of making him out of character. Hopefully he is still in character and his emotional development is believable.

Come Halloween (in the story) there will be some pretty big action. The story will be in two parts, part one will end Halloween night. I just want to lay the relationship between Michael and Charlotte. Hopefully it's not getting boring.

Please review!


	9. Chapter 9

_**October 17**__**th**_

Charlotte woke up with a terrible head ache lying in bed and cocooned in warm blankets. Slowly her eyes fluttered open but her vision was slightly blurry for a few minutes. She listened for Michael but there was no sound in the house but the crackling of fire. When she pushed the covers down over her body she saw she was naked. She reached out and grabbed Michael's shirt, which had been laid out on the night stand next to her.

She could not find her jeans and left the room, tugging the ends of Michael's shirt down to her mid thighs. She was going to call out to Michael but she did not want to see him just yet. It was never her intention to run, she did not want to push her luck, and it appeared her one solid chance had come and passed. Instead she decided to take the time to explore the home.

As she went from room to room she ignored the odd picture she came across. She did not want to know about the man who lived here before or his family. The only thin g that gave her some comfort is that more people might come looking in on him. She found nothing in the rooms but when she climbed up into the attic, which was uncomfortable in just a large shirt, she found radio. She climbed back down from the attic with it, praying it worked. Some news or music would be welcome at the moment.

She wondered if she might even get some information on what people think had happened to her. She prayed people did not give her up for dead but she knew it was most likely. Would anyone actually expect Michael Myers to take a prisoner? She doubted it and so she prepared herself for it. It was most likely that they were no longer even looking for her body.

She walked downstairs with the old radio in her arms, pulling down at the ends of Michael's shirt self consciously. She looked over the radio, trying to figure out how it works when she walked into the living room. She looked up, about to put it on the coffee table. She nearly dropped the radio when she looked up to find Michael standing in the doorway to the kitchen, knife in his hand, staring at her silently.

"Michael… you scared me," she breathed and then held up the radio. "look what I found."

His head lowered to look at the radio in her arms and she placed it on the table. She plugged it in and sat down on the couch. She would occasionally glance at the knife in his hand but hoped not to make it obvious she was very frightened. He stood there motionless as she searched for a signal, her nerves on high alert the entire time.

"It will be nice to listen too don't you think, Michael?" she asked him. He continued to stare straight ahead. "It will be like when I tried to get you the TV at Danvers. Remember? We can listen to music together."

He turned his head to look at her.

"Come sit with me," she said offering him a sweet smile. He moved toward her slowly, sitting down stiffly and looking at the radio. She pretended to look for music, but really switched the radio to AM, looking for a news story on Michael's escape. She did not have to search long, for every local station was focused on the terror that had gripped all of Illinois. Haddonfield was on near lockdown, and the streets were completely empty at night. Michael waited as she listened to the news story on him but he did not seem to react badly. He even let her slowly, calmly, reach over and take the knife from his hand.

"I'm just going to put it right here in case you need it, but you don't need it right now," she told him and he put up no resistance. When she heard her name she leaned forward, turning the volume way up. As she had expected she was suspected dead and all searches had been called off. Interviews from her students were played from the night of her disappearance. She was touched by the things they said, but she could only hope that one day she would be able to prove every one wrong.

Charlotte tensed when the sound of Dr. Loomis' voice came through the speakers and she looked over at Michael. He lectured those on the radio about how Michael was nothing more than an empty shell for evil, that he was driven by the desire to kill and nothing else. Just as Charlotte reached out to turn the radio off, Michael raised his fist, slamming it down on the radio nearly breaking it in two.

Charlotte yelped in fear and got to her feet. Had she waited a moment after Michael reached for his knife, she would have seen him plunge it into the radio speakers repeatedly and that he had no intention of plunging it into her. Instead she turned and ran, strictly on instinct. Had she used her critical mind, and not been so anxious, she would have known to wait and try to calm him down.

But by the time her rational mind over powered her instinctual will to live she was outside, running barefoot over the forest floor, in nothing by Michael's oversized shirt. When she looked back she could not see Michael and hid behind a tree to catch her breath. She breathed in the cool morning air and ignored the pain of the soles of her feet. She listened for Michael as she weighed the pros and cons of turning back now and going back into the house.

This was twice in two days she had tried to run. Michael might not forgive it twice. But Michael might forgive her momentary lapse in judgment if she returned to him on her own. But now Michael was nowhere in sight and she was sourly tempting to take her chance and run now. Her rational mind in the end won out, screaming at her that she had no idea where she was, she was in the middle of the forest, possibly miles from a town, it was beginning to get cold, and she was in nothing but an oversized shirt.

Still, she did not turn back toward the cabin, and instead found a large tree to climb. An avid tree climber as a child she managed to get at least fifteen feet into the air by the time she stopped, and though her bare legs were scraped and raw from the hard bark, she felt a little bit more secure with her new location. When Michael came, and he no doubt would, she would be able to see him first and the distance would allow her to talk to him in an attempt to calm him down.

She scolded herself for running again, but as each day passed her nerves grew thinner and she was beginning to lose her grip slightly. But if Michael did not kill her after this, she was almost positive that he would not no matter what. Hopefully she would be given the chance to be calmer around him and insure that she would not try and leave him.

A cold breeze ripped through the orange tree leaves and she shivered, ac truly hoping that Michael would find her soon. She did not have to wait long but by the time she heard him coming through the forest she was shivering, her teeth chattering. Her legs stung and her arms began to ache as she clutched at the tree branch. She waited until Michael walked past the tree she was in, at least ten yards past before calling out to him.

"Michael," she called softly and he stopped in his tracks. He looked to his right and then left before turning around, scanning the forest for her. "Up here. In the tree."

He looked up and she tried to smile at him but could only manage a grimace. She wondered what was going through his mind as he looked up at her. Probably how he could get up to her to stab her, she thought bitterly. Once again cursing her panic she rearranged her grip on the tree.

"I'll come down if you promise not to kill me," she breathed. He looked up at her but cocked his head. "And… and I promise not to run again. I know I should not be afraid of you, but I am just a jumpy person. I promise. You can trust me. I have never lied to you before have I?"

He thought a moment and she watched as he bent down, stabbing the hard, cold ground with the blade of his knife. When he straightened back up it was with no knife in his hand and she nodded. She began to make her descent. She let out a little cry as she slipped and her thigh scraped across the tree bark, but got to the ground primary all in one piece. She let out a scream of a higher volume when she turned around and found Michael standing directly in front of her.

"Hello, Michael," she said with a small smile. Still nervous she pushed on and took a step toward him, closing the distance. She wrapped her arms around his waist, worming her way against him, making sure her head was pressed to his chest firmly. When his arms came to circle her, which was done at least a minute after she began the embrace, it was stiffly, almost timidly.

"It doesn't matter who it is, Michael, when a person lashes out, or acts violently, I get scared," she said into his chest, telling herself the reason she remained in the embrace was strictly to calm him and to take in his warmth. She pulled back to look up at him, searching for his eyes behind his mask. She squeezed her arms around him, pressing her body into his.

"I'm really cold. Can we go home?"

He pulled away from the embrace and went to retrieve his knife. Charlotte made sure not to show her fear as he walked toward her, the knife in his hand. She waited for the knife to be brought up and plunged into her chest but his hand remained at his side. She let out a small breath of relief and smiled at him.

He had her walk in front of him and would silently direct her in which direction to turn when she wavered from the correct course. As she walked, her bare feet turning red and blistered from the cold, each twig, leaf, and twig causing pain with each step, she was amazed at how far she had run. It had not seemed that far as she was running and she was once again cursing herself. Her scraped legs screamed in protestation and she shivered.

She yelped when her feet gave out from underneath her, but she did not hit the ground. Instead she found herself securely in the powerful, warm arms of Michael. She leaned into him, searching for his warmth, and buried her face in his neck, trying to ignore the smell of rubber as she breathed in his mask. She nosed the mask out of the way of her face and breathed him in, wondering for the first time what Michael really smelled like. What did he smell liked outside of the hospital, not covered in medicinal creams or the smell of the wool straightjacket they kept him in so often? What did he smell like beside the steel of his blade and the rubber of his mask?

He smelled like autumn. She wondered if that was because he had just been marching through the forest looking for her, or if it was because it simply was autumn. She was trying to figure this out as they climbed the steps of the house and she was placed down on the couch. She watched as he placed two more logs on the fire and then disappeared a moment. She heard his boots on the stairs first going up and then coming back down.

When he came back into the room she was rubbing her hands up and down her arms to warm herself. She almost laughed when he placed the box of condoms in her lap and unzipped his jumpsuit. He was impatient as she pulled out a condom and placed it on him. The moment it was on she was pushed down to the couch and entered without ceremony.

Charlotte was hardly a specialist in the psychology of sex, but one did not need an extensive education in psychotherapy to deduce that this coupling was a means in which Michael could reestablish dominance in their… relationship. He was hard, fast, and unforgiving with his grip on her body. He panted in her ear and despite the stinging of her thighs and the aching of the muscles in her arms, warmth was beginning to return to her and she felt pleasure building up in her belly.

She even had the outrageous thought that she should show Michael some new positions. If she was going to be his sexual pleasure outlet, she might as well introduce some versatility into the mix. He straightened up before climaxing and grabbed her waist, angling himself so he could get more deeply inside of her. She would be embarrassed later, but she reached down to the juncture between her legs and helped herself along.

She found her peak before Michael did, and as she looked up at him she wished desperately she could watch his face. He grunted as he climaxed, let out a deep, low groan. She thought it was the closest she would probably ever get to hearing his voice. He fell back down to the couch and pulled her into his arms. He nearly crushed her but she did nothing to stop him. It was most certainly not the time. But as he squeezed her tightly to him he made another deep grunt, a groan maybe, some type of strangled sound in the base of his throat that sounded like a garbled mess of nothing.

But as Charlotte replayed the strange sound over and over in her head she found her mind unable to believe what she thought she heard. Had the noise left anyone else, she might have thought it was an attempt to say the word… mine. She shifted against him so she could look at his white masked face.

"What did you say Michael?" she asked him but he said nothing, he remained silent. She began to think she dreamt it. It was most certainly impossible to think that Michael had attempted to speak. But despite believing that her tired mind had dreamt the sound up she nodded and placed her hand on her chest, telling him, "Yes, Michael, I'm yours."

When his arms tightened around her a moment she allowed herself the tiniest belief that he had attempted to speak. It did not surprise her that the sound had not come out as he intended, and she still doubted he would ever try to speak again. It was most likely an excited utterance. Michael had not stopped speaking because he did not know how. He simply did not _want _to speak. And after so long without speaking, and his stopping at such a young age, it was probably that he would have some severe speech problems if he ever were to try and speak again.

But here he had a reason to speak, but it was unlikely he would be faced again with a situation that aroused the desire to speak in him. She assessed it was most likely an excited utterance, brought on by the adrenaline (though he most likely felt none) of the chase and the sex.

But in truth it was all conjecture. She had no idea if he spoke or not. She did not know if it was simply another grunt she had read too much into. She would never know if he spoke, because chances were he would never speak again. She could only analyze the situation. Charlotte was so desperate to be the person Michael would speak to though, that she accepted that he spoke. It was what she chose to believe.

She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest and nodded, fluttering her tired eyes closed.

"Yours Michael," she breathed, patting the arm he now had around her waist. "Yours."

Slowly, cuddled between the warmth of the fire and the warmth of Michael's body, she fell off to sleep.

A/N: Just finished watching the Bruins (kick ass), and finished this up during the third period. Hope you guys like it.

Thanks everyone for the reviews. They mean so much and keep me inspire. 3

Happy reading!


	10. Chapter 10

_**October 18**__**th**_

Charlotte woke up on the couch, but Michael was not with her. She looked for him, her eyes searching the living room of the rustic cabin, and she did not have to look long. He was sitting on the couch, which he had pulled closer to the fire. Charlotte's lips parted as she looked at him, his face unmasked and open to her gazing eyes. His skin was white and pasty, nearly as white as his mask, a result of being locked away from the word for so many years. His face was already showing signs of a five o'clock shadow again and she momentarily wondered if he would even trust her to shave him again after her recent escape attempts.

His nose was rather nondescript, neither wide nor narrow, neither arching nor straight, hooked nor upturned, large nor small. His lips were thin, straight, and pink. His eyes, deep and wide set, but not uncomfortably so, were stunningly thoughtful as he looked down at his mask. His fingers ran over the nose of the mask and his dark brown eyes moved over it slowly.

She watched the little movement of his right pointer finger, the way it glided slowly over the rubber. She watched as his eyes moved, the way his jaw would occasionally clench, and the way his lips twitched slightly. He did not look up as she slid off of the couch and approached him. He only looked up when she placed her hand on his shoulder and she saw surprise on his face. Open, sincere surprise. There was nothing malicious in the look. It was nearly childlike.

He immediately began bringing his hands up, trying to pull the mask back over his face, but Charlotte stopped him.

"Please don't, Michael," she said and he paused. There was suspicion swimming in his eyes but he slowly lowered his hands back to his lap. Smiling she cupped his face with her hands, stroking his cheekbones with her thumbs. "You're so handsome. You don't need to cover yourself up… not from me. When we first met you weren't covered up and I never tried to hurt you right?"

He nodded slowly and placed the mask back into his lap. She smiled and stroked his broad shoulders then lowered his hands to glide over his powerful chest. It was amazing how strong his body remained after so long of being sedentary. Even in the few weeks since his escape he had grown stronger, and she never saw him do any extensive lifting.

"Thank you for forgiving me last night, Michael. That was very good of you."

He tilted his head to the side as she said it.

"Do you know what forgiveness is?"

Slowly he shook his head.

"It's when someone does something bad to you, or something mean, and they feel sorry, or sometimes they don't feel sorry I suppose, though I do, and even though they did something bad, you let go of your anger and resentment, and start over with them. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"And have you forgiven me?" she asked and smiled when he brought his hand up and pressed it to her chest, where her heart rested.

"Thank you Michael," she smiled. He looked down at her and she saw a glimmer in his eyes. His head tilted to the side and his hand moved to close around her breast. She touched his wrist and he let her gently remove his hand from her body and put it in her lap. She held his hand gently and smiled.

"Would you like to bathe Michael? It's been a white since you took a proper bath or shower and your hair is getting slightly greasy. You can take a shower while I cook dinner and then we can spend time together. Do you understand, Michael, spend time together?"

He nodded and she watched in amazement as he raised his hand to his head and almost shyly touched his hair. He took a little curl between his fingers and pinched it. He looked almost embarrassed, the way his shoulders hunched slightly and he looked down at his mask. She bit her bottom lip, terrified he would put the mask back on and try to hide from her again. She regretted pointing out the state of his hair.

"I can cut your hair afterward so it's a little shorter. It is getting a little long," she told him and brought his hand away from his hair. "Would you like that? You are so handsome a little haircut would look nice."

He nodded and stood, carrying his mask with him upstairs to the shower. She vaguely wondered if he knew enough to use the shampoo, but she figured he would. In the hospital he would be bathed by an orderly and shampoo was always squeezed into his brown hair. She had dinner, some soup and toast, ready for him when he came back downstairs and asked him if he could put some more wood on the fire. He did so as she put the soup down on the table.

His hair was wet and plastered to the side of his face. It appeared he stepped out of the shower and simply placed his jumpsuit back on, not doing anything to attempt to dry off. She was pleased that his mask, while securely in his hands, was not on his face. He sat down next to her on the couch and brought the bowl of steaming soup into his lap, eating it slowly and quietly.

"Michael? Come Halloween, we are going to stay here right? We won't be going to Haddonfield?" she asked. He tensed and she saw his face tighten into a taut frown. He continued eating, shoveling the soup into his mouth and biting into the bread fiercely.

"We will be staying together though right?" she asked. He looked at her, his eyes squinting almost. "I don't want to be apart from you."

She reached out and touched his arm, rubbing back and forth in a comforting manner. He looked at her a long time, no longer eating. His eyes moved over her face thoughtfully.

"I don't want to be left alone. If I am I might be taken away and you won't be able to find me again," she told him. "I don't want that to happen and I don't think you do either."

He shook his head.

"Do you promise that no matter what you will keep me with you?"

He nodded.

"Good," she smiled and patted his hand. He resumed eating and waited for her to finish once he was done. When they finished Michael followed her into the kitchen where she did the dishes. Her mind raced as she tried to find the best way to breach this subject with Michael. She breathed heavily as she scrubbed at the bowls for longer than necessary and began speaking with her back to him. She did not want to see his face when she spoke. It would be better not to know if death was coming.

She felt the chances of him killing her were high when she next spoke, but she had to try. She thought she had a fairly good idea what Michael had planned come Halloween, and if she could keep him from killing anyone else she would. She knew once he was recaptured, which she could only hope would happen eventually; she would never be given access to him again. And she felt that this time was coming soon and as much as she could do for Michael until then she would.

He was clearly insane, and so it was unlikely that any more added to the body count would affect him in anyway. He could not be executed, and the security he had been under at Danvers was so high and restrictive it was not as if anything more could be taken from him, but his treatment might grow worse. Meals might be skipped, med charts might be fudged. On top of not wanting Michael to suffer if she could save another life she would, even if it meant risking her own.

"You know you do not need to hurt anyone Michael. We are safe here alone. No one needs to die anymore, right?" she asked and paused. She heard nothing behind her, no movement, no breaking furniture, no sign of his reaction. She turned to face him, swallowing hard. He was standing in the doorway staring at her, face devoid of emotion. His eyes were on her as they normally her, thoughtful, but hard to read.

She watched him look to the calendar on the wall. Slowly he walked toward it. He ripped the day off and tossed it to the side, then turned back to Charlotte. She watched him a moment and then moved to speak again, taking a timid step toward him. Her lips parted but no sound left and she closed her mouth. She thought about her next words carefully but ended up speaking openly and honestly.

"Why Michael? _Why _do you want to hurt people?" she asked him. "You had a good life. A loving family and successful parents. You had toys and clothes and siblings. _Why_?"

He only stared at her but his eyes began to blink rapidly.

_Prone to thought disorder, _she thought quickly. She moved toward him and stood right in front of him, tucking some loose hair behind his hair and pressing it away from his face. He stopped blinking and looked down at her, his entire body taught.

"That's alright Michael," she told him. "You don't have to answer that."

She forced a smile. If only he could. That was the million dollar question. If she could answer that her career would sky rocket. She would be famous. She would go down next to Erikson, Frued, Jung and Maslow, Pavlov, Skinner, and Wundt. Unfortunately Michael could not tell her why. He probably did not understand himself and would be unable to tell her even if he could speak.

"You are a mystery, Michael," she smiled. "Now let me find some scissors and I can cut your hair."

Finding scissors was not difficult, but trimming Michael's hair was. She did her best to keep him even, and when she finished he could not find any glaring mistakes. She was pleased that when she finished he touched his hair and seemed pleased with the haircut. If Michael smiled, he would have smiled then. As his hair grew longer it tended to curl slightly, but now that it was shorter it appeared silky and straight. She smiled as he ran his hands through his finished hair feeling, his cranium intently. She took his hand and he stood from the chair.

"Feel better?" she asked and he nodded. "What do you like better, Michael? Murder or sex?"

He looked down at her blankly.

"If you leave me I won't be able to make you feel better," she told him. "I am your doctor and I care about you, remember. Don't leave me alone. Stay here and don't go to Haddonfield."

She tugged on his hand and brought him upstairs to the bedroom they had began to use. She froze when they were on the stairs and she heard the familiar sound of a car coming up the gravelly dirt road. She froze, keeping the scream from ripping through her throat. Her hands tightened around Michael's and he watched her, waiting for a scream or a shout of fear or warning. But she remained silent, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes.

"The man, Michael," she whispered. "The one that came a day or so ago… he must have been expected back by someone."

He frowned and began moving back down the stairs, dragging Charlotte by the wrist as he did. He placed her in the closet and put his mask back over his face. He looked down at her a moment before slowly bringing his hand up to his lips. He pressed a single finger to the mouth of his mask and she nodded, tears in her eyes. The door was closed and locked and she waited, her heart thudding in her ears. She listened, her eyes screwed shut, waiting.

Every moment that passed she wanted to scream, she wanted to yell out for this man to run and turn back but she knew she could not. She needed to get Michael to trust her, to make him think she has learned her lesson. Then she might be able to keep him from going to Haddon field and perhaps, save some more lives in the process.

When she heard the front door open and the sound of a woman's voice call out from inside the house Charlotte covered her mouth with the palm of her hand hard. Tears squeezed from her eyes as she listened on the other side of the door. She heard a bang, a muffled scream, and then another bang against the closet door. She yelped in surprise when, after opening her eyes, she saw the blade of the knife come ripping through the door. She bit it back the best she could and pressed herself into the wall, cuddling the corner like it was her lover.

Her eyes were closed and she was trembling when the door was opened. She let Michael take her into his arms, but kept her eyes shut. Her shoulders shuddered as she tried to keep her tears at bay. She did not see the body of the dead woman Michael had to step over before getting to the stairs, nor did she see the bloody footprints he left behind. She could feel hot liquid smudge against her arm as he brought her up the stairs and moved away from the touch.

After she wiped the blood away she was gently laid down on the bed. She looked up at him, up into the emotionless white rubber searching for answers she would never find. She looked down to his hands, finding the blood there and looked away. He saw the look and held his hands up to examine them. She bit her lips, tears silently dripping over her cheeks, as he disappeared. He came back with clean hands, holding them up to her to show her.

"Thank you, Michael," she choked out. She hugged her knees up to her chest as he reached into the drawer and pulled out the box of condoms.

"Not right now, Michael, please," she said softly and rolled over, laying her head on the pillow. He looked down at the condom and then down at her. Slowly he reached out and placed the condom back down onto the dresser and then climbed onto the bed beside her. She was nearly relaxed when she felt his hand on her back, gently, but choppily rubbing between her shoulders. The touch was rough and awkward, but it caused her to roll onto her back to look at him. He then put his hand on her stomach, and did the same.

She looked up at him a few minutes. Her lips parted when he reached up and removed the mask from his face, placing it to the side.

"You are an enigma," she told him. "I will never understand you."

She took hold of his hand, the hand that had just murdered someone, a someone that she could have warned, could have given a fighting chance, and did not. Her insides were in such terrible turmoil that she could not help but squeeze his hand. She needed some type of support, some type of comfort, even it came from Michael.

She cautioned herself against Stockholm. She was growing attached to him, she knew that, but she could not let herself give in completely. If she let herself fall completely into this emotional attachment as a means of surviving, and gave up her cognitive disinterestedness than it was all over. She would never be able to bounce back and she could kiss being a respected psychologist goodbye. She would need therapy when this was all over regardless. She only hoped who ever she found would be discrete and take patient doctor privilege seriously. Still, her chest ached, and her throat hurt. She felt her lower lip trembled and eyes squeezed shut again.

"Michael?" she asked softly. "Hold me?"

He stared at her. He did not seem to understand what it was she wanted. She sat up from the bed and patted the spot beside her. He moved to sit down and waited patiently. Carefully she slid into his lap, curling against his body and pressing her face to his neck. His arms remained at his sides and so she grabbed them and wrapped his arms around her, before snuggling back into him. She listened to his heartbeat, slow and steady and took comfort in the sound.

"Don't leave, Michael," she breathed. She clutched at his shoulders. Things were beginning to take a toll on her and she turned to the only person that could take care of her. She would be fine in a few days, when the sound of a person being murdered, a murder she felt complicit in, faded from her ears. She would have to be fine.

She was Doctor Charlotte Hurst, M.D.

His arms tightened, squeezing too tightly for a moment, but she said nothing. With his heart beat thudding in her ear, his warmth wrapped around her, and his murderous hands pressing against her skin, she fell into a fitful sleep.

()

A/N:

Let me know what you think! Still in character? Not boring? An inquiring mind needs to know!

And thank everyone for the reviews! They mean so much! Things will be moving along well next chapter. I hope to have that up in a few days.

Happy Reading all!


	11. Chapter 11

_**October 19**__**th**_

Charlotte woke up alone but cocooned in a multitude of blankets. She smiled softly, knowing full well that Michael had wrapped her in the blankets after she fell asleep. Despite it being cold she had sweat through Michael's shirt and had to peel away the layers of comforters. She called out his name and checked the bathroom and all the upstairs rooms. She did not want Michael to think she was trying to run again, though she hoped that her actions the day before proved her willingness to stay with him.

She called out his name again and walked through the whole house searching for him. When she did not find him she looked out the windows, wondering if he was somewhere outside. Rain was coming down hard outside, large puddles pooling up on the hard dirt ground. She looked out every window she could and eventually spotted him outside the kitchen window by the tree line. He was in his jumpsuit, his mask on his head, and digging into the now wet ground with a large shovel.

The hole he dug was shallow and Charlotte knew that it would be very easy for the bodies to be unearthed, but this behavior was odd for Michael. He had never made any attempt to hide or burry his victims. It was possible he was hiding them for her sake though she did not want to put too much emphasis on his care for her. He had held her last night and made sure she was wrapped securely in blankets but Michael Myers had been believed for so long to have no emotion and incapable of making interpersonal relationships. She did not want to get ahead of himself.

She watched as she grabbed the newest body and tossed it into the hole without ceremony. She watched as he shoveled dirt back into the hole. She expected him to walk back into the house once he was finished but he did not. Instead he stood on top of the fresh earth staring out into the forest. For nearly five minutes he stood there and all Charlotte could do was watch. After a few minutes he turned, incredibly slow. She watched him turn. His white face was turned toward the window and her first instinct was to run.

She remained rooted to the spot though. She watched him another few moments and he did not move an inch. The hair of his mask was soaked, his dark jumpsuit even darker from the rain. She bit her bottom lip and moved from the window and to the back door. She stepped out onto the back yard, immediately pelted with the heavy rain.

"Michael!" she called over the rain but he was still looking toward the kitchen window.

_Catatonic behavior – subtype stupor, _she noted to herself as she moved toward him. He seemed glued to his spot.

"Michael, come out of the rain," she said as she walked toward him. "You will get sick."

She could hear the rain thudding against his rubber mask. Frightened that he might be suffering from a stroke she reached out and removed his mask. He let her, not so much as flinching at the contact. The look on his face reminded her of some of the catatonic schizophrenics she had seen during her rotation at one of the Chicago insane asylums. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. She reached up and patted his cheeks softly but again he made no sign that he had processed the touch.

"Michael, you are going to get ill, it is wet and cold," she told him. She looked around and down at her feet. Her feet sunk into the damp grass and she saw goosebumps all over her skin. "Come on, Michael."

She wrapped an arm around his waist and applied some pressure. He took a step toward the house with her.

"Good job, Michael, let's go," she said and pushed him again. He walked with her to the house but before she opened the door to bring him inside she took the shovel from his hand. She leaned it up against the house and then opened the door, gently pushing him inside. She asked him to remove his boots but he moved into the living room and sat down on the couch, still in his sopping wet jumpsuit and boots.

Michael, let me get you out of this and throw it in the dryer," she said but he only stared into the fire. She bit her bottom lip hard and knelt down in front of him. She started to unlace his boots, waiting for him to stop her. When he did not she slid off his boots, sucking in a breath. He wore no socks and the dampness and the poor fit of the boots had left his feet covered in painful blisters. She told Michael to wait a moment and went to get a bucket of hot water and a cloth. Gently she dabbed at his feet, biting her lower lip.

"The boots are too big, Michael. You're feet are slipping around and chafing," she told him but he was still looking right at the fire. She got up again and retrieved a towel. She unzipped his jumpsuit and removed his upper body from it, settling it around his waist. She dried his upper body off and wiped at his face and hair. His eyes slowly moved from the fire and over to Charlotte.

"Will you step out of your jumpsuit for me?" she asked him and he looked down at himself. Slowly he stood and let her pull the jumpsuit down and he stepped out of it. She wrapped the towel around his waist and told him to sit back down. She gently dabbed at his feet.

"Michael, I am worried more people will be coming to the home. The first man stopped by to visit a friend, but the woman could have been his wife or sister or friend coming to look for him. More people will come. Everything a person does has serious consequences, and killing someone has a lot of consequences," she said gently, making sure her words were associated with the comfort of the warm cloth soothing his painful feet. "Soon the police might come, Michael. I know it feels safe here, but we aren't. I think moving on is our best bet."

He looked down at her, his brow slightly furrowed.

"I will come with you," she assured him. "I won't try and leave you, but if the cops come they might try and kill you or bring you back to Danvers. Michael if you go back to Danvers they will never let me come to see you. The only way you and I can stay together is if we find somewhere safe."

He looked at her, frowning deeply.

"We are in the forest yes, deep into the forest it looks like so I am assuming we are in the south of the state?" she asked him. "Please Michael, try and remember this is very important. When you drove us here did you look at any street signs, any road signs?"

He paused a moment before slowly nodded.

"Did the signs read North or South?" she asked and then laughed. "Let me do this. Did the signs say south?"

He nodded.

"Do you remember any numbers on the signs?"

He nodded. She silently wished she could test his memory capabilities. If he remembered all this it was quite possible he had a superior memory or a photographic memory.

"I am going to go through a list of numbers. I want you to nod when I get to one you saw, alright?"

He nodded.

"OK, Seventy? Fifty-Seven? Fifty-Five? Sixty-Four? Twenty-Four?" She stopped when he nodded and thought. "OK, Michael this is very, very important. Did we cross over into Kentucky?"

Naturally he did not answer. Charlotte nodded.

"Do you know where we are at all?" he stood, surprising Charlotte, and reached down to pull her to her feet. He led her to a room in the house that was covered on three walls with book shelves. The far wall was covered by a giant map of the United States. He walked over to it and pressed his finger to a little red pin. Charlotte looked at it and nodded.

"Very good Michael," she told him, looking around. "This must be a hunting cabin. I bet the red pin is this house." She looked at the desk and saw some books scattered about. "Michael these white pins might be other cabins. A lot of times hunting families stop coming and there are abandoned hunting cabins in all fifty states. Maybe one of these is abandoned. He might have marked them in case he stays out late or gets caught in a storm. I think we should move to one of them."

Michael looked over the map thoughtfully. He pointed to a white pin, once far separated from the other pins and much further into the forest. Charlotte bit her lip and thought a moment. There were many reasons she did not want to go that far into the forest. It would make escape attempts more rare, and those few escape attempts that did arise more difficult to capitalize on. Not only that but she was terrified of running out of food. Here Michael could drive to a store if need be. The house was filled with food that could last them months. This man clearly did not like going into civilization. Out there Michael would have to hunt. He did not know how to shoot a gun or load it. Hunting was not something one just picked up.

She bit down hard on her lower chip, chewing it in thought. As she looked at Michael she was overcome with an amazing realization. He was simply waiting for her to tell him what to do. Whatever she told him to do, where to go, he would listen to her. It made her decision all the more important. She had an opportunity here and she needed to capitalize on it. She needed to think things through clearly. She looked back to the map and over all the pins. Some of them might actually have someone living in them. That was a risky move. She did not want to cause anyone else's death. She was also certain that Michael would put his mask on as they moved through the forest. Someone in a hunting lodge would no doubt have a gun, and would no doubt shoot at intruders. She did not want Michael killed, she did not want anyone else killed, and she certainly did not want herself killed.

"Oh, Michael," she breathed. "I do not know what to do. If we go deeper into the woods we might not have food or fire wood. It's getting so cold. If we go closer to towns then we are at a higher risk of being caught. But we can't stay here. We can't stay here. More people will be coming."

She turned her head as Michael left the room before looking back to the map. She chewed on her lip, thinking so hard her head began to hurt.

"How can I get everyone out of this safely," she breathed and closed her eyes. "How can I get Michael back into the hospital?"

The thought bothered her but she did not let herself experience the emotion. The sadness at being separated from Michael was nothing more than clinical disappointment in losing a viable study candidate and the natural feeling of a victim beginning to identify with her captor. Eventually that dull ache, that pulling at her heart would pass and she could ease her disappointment with a million dollar book deal. Slowly she walked out of the room and into the living room. Michael was back in his jumpsuit and slipping on his boots.

"Wait a moment, Michael," Charlotte called and he paused. "Let me get you some socks."

He waited for her to find a pair of dry socks and she placed the boots by the fire to dry out. She put the socks on him and moved to sit down next to him, smiling softly. She patted his cheek and her lips parted as she felt him lean into her touch.

"Michael I think I know where we need to go," she told him, stroking his forehead and brushing his damp hair back. His dark eyes gazed down at her, glowing with more emotion that she had ever seen. She silently congratulated herself on being right. That Doctor Loomis was a dirty fool. All Michael needed was human contact, stimulation. Locking him away from the world was the worst thing that could have been done to him. He was clearly mentally ill and she did not think he necessarily should have been released, but to lock him up and shut him away the way he was had clearly stunted any emotional or social growth he might have been able to attain.

"Michael, I think it's time you went _home_."

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A/N:

Thank you all so much for the reviews!

Let me know what you think!


	12. Chapter 12

_October 20__th_

Michael was at first unwilling to leave the cabin. It was familiar to him and familiarity was always more comfortable. It did not matter that the familiar cabin was in fact the most dangerous place they could be. She had followed him into the kitchen to the calendar. He pointed to the current date with his left hand and then to the 31st with the other. She struggled to reason with him, to tell him that he could still go home before the 31st and simply wait for Halloween there. He was resistant, but when she promised him that they would be able to pass the time together he relented. She threw some food into a bag, put on the remnants of her torn jeans, and asked Michael for the car keys.

He got the keys but did not give them to her. She was horrified when he retrieved hunting rope from the closet but she let him bind her wrists and ankles. She pleaded that he not place duck tape over her mouth, that she would need to speak with him along the way, but she was ignored. The tape was pressed to her lips and she was thankful when he pushed at the tape a moment, making sure her nostrils were completely clear. He grabbed the back of food, wrapped her in a blanket, and scooped her into his arms.

As they stepped outside she felt a slight chill and was thankful for the blanket. It was cold for this time of year but she hoped that once in the car he would know to put the heat on. He looked over the four cars now in the driveway. She noted that he took the one of average quality; a simple nondescript four door. It was not the beat up truck of the hunter, the expensive car of the searching wife, or the now reported stolen car they had arrived in. It was the one the friend had driven when dropping off the whiskey. She once again noted the intelligence of the choice, and the planning that went into the decision.

She waited patiently as he unlocked the car and placed her in the backseat. Her calm was immediately destroyed when he pressed a button in the front and watched the trunk spring open. She shook her head, trying to speak to him through the tape but it was to no avail. He scooped her up and walked over, gently laying her down in the trunk. She shook her head frantically, trying to beg not to be locked in the trunk. She was claustrophobic, she hated small spaces, she could not be locked in a small space.

When tears began to stream down her face he paused and pinched her nose. His message was clear. If she cried and her nose stuffed up she would not be able to breathe. She nodded and tried to calm herself but her body trembled. She could not be put into the trunk. His hand gently patted her hair, trying to imitate how she would stroke his hair.

She nodded slowly, taking long, deep breaths through her nose. When he was satisfied he shut the trunk with a large thud, leaving Charlotte in the small dark trunk. Haddonfield was hours away. They were not even in Illinois anymore. Michael had crossed over into Kentucky when fleeing with her.

She looked up in surprise when the trunk opened once again and Michael slipped a pillow under her head and draped a blanket on top of her. She hoped it would not get too warm in the trunk but she was thankful for Michael's concern.

The trunk was small and it took only few minutes for Charlotte's legs to begin to ache. She struggled to keep her breathing even, and after about an hour or so of driving the trunk began to heat up. She wished she could fall asleep or have been hit unconscious even. The journey was absolute torture. Luckily Michael made three stops along the way to open the trunk and refresh the air she was breathing. The first time he saw her, (he had stopped on the side of a deserted road), and saw her hair soaked with sweat and her red puffy eyes he took the blanket from around her.

He was clearly angry with himself and Charlotte wished she could speak to him. She wanted to tell him that he had done right giving her the blanket but that the trunk was just too hot. He was clearly trying to do the right thing but without being able to tell him that he did well, she was afraid he would back track.

She could see his anger written all over his face, but she knew that it was not directed at her. She reached out with her bound hands as he went to slam the trunk shut. She stroked his hands gently and tried to smile under the tape. He looked at her a few moments before pulling his hands back and shutting the trunk.

She was thankful when she finally felt the car stop for the final time and the trunk was opened. She expected to be in front of the Myers house but it appeared Michael had more sense than even she had given him credit for. He took her from the trunk and gently laid her on the side of the road, feet and hands still bound. She watched as he slowly began to push the car, still on and in neutral, off the little cliff. It slid down the stiff embankment and hit the tree, falling into the underbrush unseen. It would be months before anyone would find it unless some random hiker luckily came upon it.

Michael reached down and scooped her down next, flinging her bag over his shoulder. She tried to look around but it was too dark. Everything around them was black and as he began walking all she could hear was his raspy breathing. He seemed to be prone to respiratory illnesses if his file at Danvers was to be trusted and she was frightened it he was becoming ill again. There was little she could do, despite having some medical experience, if he became very ill. If it came down to it, she hoped she would be able to get him back into custody and into a hospital in time.

She was quiet as she was carried, mainly to do with the tape over her mouth, and also out of fear. She could feel the tightness of Michael's muscles underneath his jumpsuit. He was tense, alert, ready to kill, and Charlotte knew if she did anything to bring about someone's suspicion, their blood would be on her hands.

The lights of the city were a welcome sight as they walked up a back road and she was relieved when he gently lowered her to the ground. Her muscles ached from the car and she liked the thought of being able to stretch out her legs and move for a little bit. With her eyes newly adjusted to the darkness, she could see the large, jagged, buck knife in his hand. She stiffened as he brought it toward her, but he only cut through the rope at her wrists. He was about to remove the duck tape from her mouth but he stopped when she began to shake her head frantically, her newly freed hands moving to stop him. When he paused she brought her hands up to remove the tape herself. It hurt removing the tape, and she bit back a little cry of pain as the glue yanked at her soft skin.

"Ready?" she whispered to him in the darkness and he nodded. Still holding onto the rope and knife he turned, his free hand gripping her arm tightly. She grimaced at the force behind his fingers, but said nothing. He was fragile right now, on edge, she would do nothing to disturb him.

"Hide the knife, Michael," she whispered when they arrived in a residential area and approached a man walking his dog. "Michael, for the love of God, holding onto me like this, with a knife and a rope in your hands will arouse suspicion. Put them in the bag."

Her voice was tense and forceful. She did not want to see another killed, especially when they never would have crossed paths with this man had it not been on her urging. Still, Michael listened to her and placed the rope and knife in the bag just before the man got close enough to see.

Michael jerked when the dog began to bark and snarl at it. The man yanked on the leash, confusion written all over his non-descript features. The dog's hackles were up, his teeth bared, and saliva dripped from his lips as it growled.

"I don't know what's gotten into him. He's usually so nice," the man said and Charlotte forced out a smile. She wrapped her arms around Michael's, as if he were her boyfriend, and gently pulled him away from the dog.

"We just came from his mother's house," she told the man. "He must smell her dog. She's in heat."

"Ah, yes, of course," the man said, though Charlotte did not know if that story had been true, it would have made the dog act that way.

_Dogs can smell evil, _she thought, but that did not sit well with her. As the dog moved passed them, and she looked up at Michael's face she felt a nagging pull at her chest. Maybe he was evil, maybe she was simply falling victim to Stockholm syndrome, but she did not see evil in his eyes. Something was broken in Michael, or maybe something was just missing entirely, but she could not bring herself to call him evil.

_Loomis ruined him,_ she thought bitterly. If only that little boy could have been brought to a doctor that would try to rehabilitate him, not try and hide him from all human contact. And what was the great reason Loomis gave for locking him away? His eyes were blank? He never spoke? If she had done that to every patient of hers who refused to speak or had vacant expressions, fifty percent of them would be in a hospital for the criminally insane. Now he was beyond repair. He would never stop killing and she blamed, right or wrong, that on Loomis.

Michael did not so much as glance after the dog, but Charlotte kept her arms wrapped around his. Not only did they just look like two lovers out for a moonlight walk, but if she was holding onto him, then he was not holding onto her, and the bruising grip form earlier could be avoided.

"Are we much farther?" she asked, though she knew she would receive no answer. Instead they walked another forty five minutes in silence, until they arrived at the Myers House. Though she had been there before, seeing it again, this time with Michael Myers standing right beside her, was breathtaking. She tried to imagine it how it was, freshly painted, lighted on the inside, mowed grass, a clean walkway, a car or two in the garage.

Now she could see two windows on the second story broken. The house was dirty and the pain chipped. Grass was overgrown and nearly engulfed the walkway, and one of the front steps was broken in. A gate had been erected around the house to keep meddling youths out, but she could see the chain had been broken. She had a terrifying thought of children breaking in on a prank or a dare, and running into the blade of the boogey man. No she would need to act before then. She had to get Michael back in custody before anyone else could get hurt.

As Michael opened the gate and led them around the back of the house Charlotte tried to ignore the little ache in her stomach at the thought of him returning to Danvers. It was where he belonged and she had no trouble imagining him off the street. It was the knowledge that, when he was taken back in (and she only ever imagined him being taken alive. The thought of him being killed was not something she was willing to entertain) she would never be able to see or speak to him again. She would make a fortune off of her book, but how inappropriate would it be for her, not only after having been a captive, but having had intercourse with him, which she had decided she would admit in her book, to go and visit him. The hospital would never allow it. If they did she might lose her license on ethic charges. There would also no doubt be a public outcry.

No, when Michael was taken back into custody, that would be goodbye, and the thought put a sour taste in her mouth and an aching in her chest. She jumped when Michael punched through he tiny window pain of the back door to unlock it. When he pulled his hand back out she could see the blood oozing from his knuckles, but he did not seem to feel it.

That had been another experiment she had wanted to conduct, though ethically it would never be followed through. She had always wanted to conduct a brain scan of his reaction to pain, but the only way to do that was in a hospital, and it was illegal to do those types of tests on patients. Thought, with Michael Myers, Danvers had been able to get away with quite a lot.

The inside of the house was dark, musty, and empty. Only a few random pieces of old furniture remained and she had been told on her last visit to the house during the research of an article that it had been left by the family. She followed Michael as he walked though the house, but she could not tell what he was looking for. Was he looking for his family? Was he looking for intruders? Was he remembering?

She did not know, but she did know that he stopped at his sister's bedroom. He paused at the close door but did not go inside. She frowned and walked toward him slowly, her feet making soft thuds on the wooden floor. His head was tilted to the side when she got to him, and his hand reached up to touch the nails that held the two by fours in place. The door had not been shut up when she had been to the house, so it had not been his parents who did it. It might have been a neighbor who did not want the room desecrated by hooligans, but Charlotte did not take the time to speculate. Michael had already begun moving again.

Michael's bedroom, as it had been in the past, was completely empty. All of his things had been stolen and sold on the more disturbing black market circles. He walked inside and dropped the bag. Charlotte did not think it odd that Michael would go back to his bed room, thought Samuel Loomis might think so. For someone who had no emotional or personal attachments, Michael had chosen his old bedroom to sleep in, when other rooms had a bed or a mattress already in them.

"Can we bring in the mattress from the guest room, Michael? It's old but it's nicer to sleep on then the floor," she said. Michael looked at her a moment before rummaging back into his bag. She was sure he was going to ignore her, not caring if he slept on a soft surface or not. Instead he yanked out his mask and pulled it on over his face. She sighed when he did, but she was pleased when he carried the mattress into his bedroom. The blankets had long been discarded, stolen by the homeless perhaps, or anyone who wanted a trophy from the Myers house. A mattress was too much work to carry out, and so it remained.

"We should have brought the blankets you gave me in the trunk," Charlotte sighed and she sit down on the old mattress. "We will be safer here though, Michael. I promise. No one will come looking for us."

_And they will find the bodies at the cabin. They will know you were there and it will give them some clues hopefully. _

He came to sit down next to her. She smiled at him reached out to touch his hand. His hand remained on his thigh but he looked down at her hand over his. She tried not to smile when he took his other hand and placed it on top of hers, sandwiching her hand between his. His rough hand moved away from her and up to her face. She struggled not to flinch as his hand touched her face clumsily. He dragged his finger tips down her cheek in what she assumed he must think was an affectionate gesture. When the touch did not do enough for him he grabbed onto her arms and squeezed, as if she might float away. She grimaced and tried to get out of his hard grip but he was too strong.

"Michael, wait just a moment," she said softly. He was trying to express something she knew, but he did not know how, and he reacted the only way he knew how. With violence and strength. "Do you want me, Michael? Is that it?"

He did not nod but she could see it in his eyes. His hands left her arm and she was sure she would be bruised in the morning. His hands yanked at the bottom of her shirt, his shirt, and she thought he was going to rip her only piece of clothing beside her ripped jeans.

"Wait, wait, wait, Michael, I'll take my clothes off for you," she told him and he lowered his hands from the material of her shirt. She removed her shirt and unbuttoned her jeans, but before she could strip down further he pushed her backward on the mattress, yanking her jeans off himself. When she looked up at him, she could not remember ever seeing so much hunger in his eyes.

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A/N: Sorry for the long wait! I hope the chapter is alright! Let me know what you think please!


	13. Chapter 13

_**(My laptop has been acting up and so I hand wrote this chapter and then typed it with a friend's laptop. As a result I typed very quickly so I could give her laptop back to her. I read it over, and I think I got all my mistakes. But please send me a private message if you catch anything glaring. I will fix it as soon as possible. I am going to be reading it over again on my phone just to double check and fix them on my PC (until I get my laptop back). **_

_**I would not post this story if I thought any huge mistakes or a lot of little ones remained. I just want to be careful and explain why there might be some in here. It should be just fine though. Thanks! Enjoy and please let me know what you think!)**_

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He reached into the bag beside the mattress once she was naked, retrieving the box of condoms and removing one dutifully. He knew she wanted him to wear the uncomfortable material when he put himself inside of her and he also knew that if he did wear it she would put her mouth on him again. That had been something he wanted to experience again. Though it had felt different from being inside of her it was nearly as pleasurable. But still he preferred being inside of her. He felt closer to her that way, and he liked being close to her.

"Can we try something new this time, Michael? she asked him. He looked up from the condom before ripping the wrapped open. He did not want to try something new, he thought, anger bubbling up inside of his chest. He wanted to be inside of her. He did not like it when Lottie made him angry with her, but he knew what he wanted and he did not want her to stop him. He reached into his pants, the old man's pants. His Lottie had told him not to wear his own clothes. He would be recognized and she would be taken away from him if he did that.

He pulled out his erection and rolled the condom on the way she had taught him. When he moved to push her onto her back and put himself inside of her she pressed on his chest and shook her head. The anger continued to bubble and his face contorted into a frown. His anger flared and he shoved her back down on the mattress. He forced her legs open but she continued to squirm in his arms.

"Michael, we can still have sex," she said and he paused. No one had ever talked to him about what men could do to women before his Lottie, but he knew when she said sex it was the activity of being inside of her. She smiled when he relented and touched his arms, rubbing her hands up and down in arms. It soothed him and his anger began to dissipate.

"There are a lot of different ways to have sex, Michael," she told him. He waited to see what she meant. He did not know how else to do it, and he only knew what his body told him. "Here, Michael, sit back."

Michael sat on the mattress and waited. His eyes widened slightly when she moved to straddle him. Her breasts moved close to his face and her hand wrapped out his erection. He grunted as that pleasurable feeling coursed through him. his mouth opened as his eyes went back to her breasts. His skin felt hot and he wanted to put his mouth on her but he did not want to remove his mask. There was a tightening in his loins as she lowered herself down onto him. She let out a slow, soft moan as she lowered herself.

"Oh God, Michael," she breathed, her hands playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. One hand went to touch his shoulders, moving over his broad muscles gently. He liked the feel of her delicate fingers on his skin, gently rubbing circles over the warm skin of his neck.

He groaned as she lifted herself and then lowered herself back down. He liked watching her move up and down, the way her body looked. His hands ran over her back, down and over her soft curves and then down to her bottom.

Michael was not sure the first time he saw a girl he liked looking at. He knew that some of the nurses that had come in from time to time were nice to look at. He knew it happened after Loomis took his window away, but before he got out of his prison the first time. Those had been, until recently, how Michael understood time. It had been three events. The time he murdered his sister, (at least that was what he was told. he could not remember), when they took his window, and when he escaped for the first time. Now there were two more important events that he used to interpret the passing of time. The day his Lottie came into his life, and the day he found her again. It was not even his second escape but finding Lottie.

He dug his fingers into her back. she moaned but he knew it was not pain. He raked his fingernails down her skin. Then he heard a little pain in her moan but her arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer. She whispered his name in his ear and he tightened his grip on her hips. He began moving his hands along with her, moving her up and down.

"Is this alright, Michael? Do you like it this way?" she panted. He grinded his teeth. he wanted to put his mouth on her. He grabbed his mask and yanked it from his head. His hair, his real hair, fell in front of his eyes but he pushed it back. He threw the mask to the other side of the room and lowered his mouth to her neck. He sucked on her skin hard, biting and licking at it. He pulled at it between his teeth, tasting the salt of her sweat beneath his tongue.

"Oh God, Michael!" she gasped and he growled deep in his throat. It was a harsh rattle. Her liked the way his name sounded on her lips, especially like this, breathy, full of pleasure and need. She sounded the way he felt. She could say what he could not. He understood things when it came from her. He could comprehend what she was feeling. It helped him understand his own emotions. Something no one had ever tried to do for him. "Harder, Michael, Please."

He obeyed, but nearly flung her from his lap as he tried to get a better angle. He liked it when she sat on him like this, but he could not go as hard as he wanted. He was confused when she turned on the mattress, giving him her back, but he entered her again anyway. His hands grabbed her shoulders and the back of her neck and he thrust into her hard. This must have been another way to have sex. Like sitting on him.

He felt sweat dripping down his face from the perspiration drops on her forehead. He continued thrusting even as he began to climax, but by the time he was spent he collapsed on top of Lottie, panting hard against her ear. Her hair was wet and plastered to her forehead. He stroked it as he lay on top of her, keeping himself inside of her a few moments longer. He liked being inside of her, even after. It was one of the only times he felt connected with someone. He had seen people laughing and smiling and touching each other warmly in the hospital and he knew that was how people were supposed to interact, but no matter how hard he tried he could not rustle up those emotions. They just did not exist.

"Let me turn around," she mumbled against the mattress and he rolled off of her. He felt a stirring in his chest when she directed him to lay down. She put her head on his chest and ran her finger tips over his chest and neck gently. It tickled, but it felt good so he let her continued. Her fingers trailed over his Adam's apple and he swallowed, her fingers moving up and down as it shifted underneath his skin.

"Tomorrow I will pick the room up a little. Maybe sweep the floor, take care of the cobwebs. Are you going to sleep tonight Michael? You should. It is not healthy for you to go so long between sleeping."

She tried to tell him that at the hospital but he never understood it. Sometimes it took days for him to get tired. How, let alone why, he should go to sleep if he was not tired he never understood. He was not tired now, he did not want to sleep, he would not sleep. It seemed simple to him, but Lottie, like others, got tired a lot. It was excessive really. He had tried to get tired when they told him he should be, but again he could not.

Instead he just lay here, holding his Lottie close to his body, smelling her hair, holding her fragile body.

"This was a good idea coming here, Michael. It is closer to other people yes, but they won't come poking around like in the cabin. When things quiet down and people stop looking for us we can find a better place, far away from other people."

He listened silently, starring up at the ceiling. He liked that idea. He wanted to be alone with Lottie, but he needed to stay until Halloween. Two time he killed and it was on Halloween. He was out again and so he had to wait for Halloween. He did not know why. He just knew that was what he did.

But Lottie did not like it when people were killed, even when he did it. Maybe he would stop this time, if his Lottie really did not like it. Maybe. If next year he felt this way. He wanted to hurt people this time though. He liked killing people. But just not Lottie.

Her fingers ran over the skin of his collar bone, trailed back over his Adam's apple. He waited for the little touches to stop and realized she was asleep. Slowly he slid out from underneath her. She sighed and shifted but did not awaken. He stood over her for a few moments, looking down at her soft naked body. He realized, oddly enough, that he liked the body. But it was strange. When he looked at it he felt a strange tugging sensation. A weird warmth. He had never thought that when he looked at other bodies. She shivered as he stripped out of the jeans and the flannel shirt and got into his jumpsuit. He took the flannel shirt and gently draped it over her shoulders. She stopped shivering and he was satisfied. He grabbed his mask from the floor and put it back on his head. With one last glance backward at Lottie he turned away.

His memories of this house were mainly the last time he had returned from his prison. He had flashes of his childhood, his mother laughing and a kiss to his cheek, his father putting an arm around him, his sister yelling at him. He felt anger flare up again. A cold, hot rage. He stared at the locked door, the wood nailed over it. He did not remember doing it, but he remembered being yelled at. He remembered seeing his sister with her boyfriend, he remembered her catching him, and he remembering being yelled at. She let _him _yell at him too. His hands tightened into white fists. He wanted to stab something. He wanted to kill.

He reached up and grabbed the two by four. He yanked hard He pulled, kicked, grunted, punched, until it came away. He started on the other. He wanted to get into the room. He wanted to see it. He threw his body against the door. He hardly registered any pain. He felt blood on his knuckled and a fingernail break off as he yanked and pulled.

The wood cracked and splintered and he was finally inside. His shoulders and chest heaved as he panted. The room was empty and he could not imagine it as it was. It was just an empty room. This was her room. He knew that. They said he killed her in her room so it had to have happened here. He looked around. He could remember nothing.

"Michael?"

He turned to see Lottie, his shirt on her body, her arms wrapped around her in a self hug. She looked confused, frightened. He was beginning to recognize that look as well.

"You're bleeding."

He looked at his hands. he skin was cracked, grey and bluish, oozing hot red liquid.

"Are you alright, Michael?"

Her voice was soft. He stared at her. "I'm cold. Will you come back to bed? I'm warmer with you near me."

He began moving toward her. She took his hands and gently ran her fingers over the damaged skin.

"Oh Michael," She sighed. He frowned. "Come on."

He followed her back into the bedroom and she curled up beside him. He did not fall asleep that night, but he did not leave again. He was much too comfortable with her in his arms.

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Charlotte discovered her opportunity much faster than anticipated and at first she was not going to capitalize on it. It would be risky and she was still unsure how far she could go before Michael decided to just kill her and be done with it. She had run multiple times since Michael had kidnapped her and one more escape might be all it took for him to snap. Especially after what she had witnessed last night she was unsure if she should go. He had acted so violently trying to get into his sisters room.

She heard and had read the Strode girl's testimony. It was not odd that he would try and force his way into the room, but he appeared nearly hysterical. He had thrown his body against the door so badly that his skin had been bruised from his shoulders down to his waist. His knuckles bled and two of his nails had been broken, one cracked, and another missing. The scene could only be described as violent and hysterical. She had been too frightened to approach him during the outburst, even to try and prevent him from hurting himself. She did not know what went on in his head. Instead she waited until he had calmed down to approach him.

But the next morning when she woke up Michael was taking rope out of his bag in preparation to go out. She watched him, sliding into her jeans so the binds would not scrape her bare skin. She also did not want any young kids to break in and find her tied up and naked. He seemed pleased when he turned toward her with the room and she offered her wrists up without even asking to be left unbound. She had begun to understand the looks in his eyes. Loomis clearly had just not been looking hard enough. She refused to believe what he saw in his eyes was imagined. He bound her hands and ankles before he left her comfortably situated on the mattress.

"Goodbye, Michael," she said as he moved for the door. He turned slowly and looked back at her from the doorway. "I'll see you when you get back."

She smiled at him and he turned to leave. She could hear his footsteps on the stairs and then the back door opening and closing. He was not stupid, she thought to herself. Even though he just went out in broad day light in a jumpsuit and mask that would be well known and easily recognizable in this area he knew to take steps to avoid capture and detection.

She let out a sigh, preparing herself for a long, boring wait. That was when she glanced toward the bag, wondering if anything in there could entertain her until Michael finished whatever it was he was doing. When she spotted the knife lying there on the floor she felt her mouth go dry. There was evidence, based on the Strode's girl testimony that Michael stalked his victims first. Perhaps that was what he was doing. If so he would have no need for the knife.

She paused and listened, her senses suddenly on high alert. She had heard the door open and close. He was no longer in the house. She reached out and touched the black handle of the knife but paused. She thought that the moment she touched the handle he would come back into the room, realizing he had left it. She thought of what she should say.

"Oh, Michael, I wanted to put it in the bag so it didn't get ruined or misplaced," or maybe, "I wanted it to be ready for you when you came back for it."

She nodded, letting out a deep, shaky breath. She sliced through the rope on her ankles first, but it was difficult. The rope was meant for securing a buck to the top of a car or truck. It was thick and durable, but eventually she got through it. She paused to think again. What did she say now?

"I was just uncomfortable Michael, but I was not going to run. I only wanted the ropes off. You know I wouldn't try and leave you again."

Getting through the ropes on her wrist was more difficult. She sliced into her pale skin in the attempt, but the blood was not too great. She pressed her hand to her bleeding wrist and stood on trembling legs. She could hear her breath panting hard and the blood circulating in her ears.

Was it a test? She never knew Michael to play games.

She moved toward the hall. Maybe if she did not leave now he would trust her and give her even more leeway. She shook her head. A part of her did not want to leave, that she was going to miss him, she realized. That was why she was trying to talk herself out of leaving. He would feel betrayed. He would be hurt. She shook her head. Michael did not think that way. She would not delude herself into believing he cared about her. If she did not leave now, any blood Michael spilled would be on her hands.

The hall seemed endless as she crept down it. If she heard the door open though, she still had time to run back into his room. When she got to the stairs her heart rate increased until it was pounding so hard against her chest she thought it was near to bursting. Each stair she walked down was a step away from and toward safety. She was that much closer to freedom, and that much further away from an easy explanation should Michael find her.

The wood creaked underneath her bare feet, urging her on and warning her to go back. But she kept going. She had too. The front door was locked and she felt herself panic, but with a laugh and a breath she began turning the locks. This time when she turned the handle it opened for her. She cursed when it only opened a few inches.

"Fuck me," she breathed, realizing someone had chained it from the outside. She glanced around, noting the boarded up windows, and went to the back door. Her throat was so dry it hurt, her heard was pounding and she felt like she was going to throw up. The back door opened easily and she was outside. The cold air was a relief against her flushed skin, but her flesh only turned hotter as she got outside. There was no way to lie to Michael now should he find her. She would either get away or be killed. She considered screaming but thought that might bring Michael back. She was not entirely sure where he was.

She had to get over the gate.

The gate had been open last night, but Michael had tied it shut with hunting rope. She punched her thigh in frustration. She had dropped the knife when she cut herself and had not picked it back up. Why did women always forget the knives in situations like this. She was smart, educated, intelligent and she forgot the fucking knife.

She pulled herself up over the gate, her weak muscles trembling as she tried to shimmy over the edge. Once she fell to the other side there was an explosion of adrenaline she had been keeping at bay inside of her. She ran, her arms pumping at her sides, her legs aching, her chest burning. She passed people on the street but she did not stop. She had to get away. She had to keep moving.

"That ladies bleeding!" a little boy yelled and adults in their yards turned to look at her.

"Lady! Lady! Are you OK!" a man raking the leaves yelled, running toward her. That was when she realized she was crying. Tears were running down her dusty cheeks as she sobbed. But she kept moving. She would have kept running until her muscles collapsed or she found a police station. It was all or nothing now. She had betrayed Michael. He would kill her now for sure.

She was grabbed as she got to the center of town and she screeched, thinking it was Michael. She punched at her captor, kicked, spit, tried to bit him. The entire time she sobbed, screaming for help.

"Someone call 911! Get me the Sherriff!" the voice yelled. She began to calm down. Michael did not speak. Not to her. And now he never would. She collapsed in the man's arms and he lowered her onto the street.

"Miss, are you alright, miss?" he asked and he pressed a his coat sleeve onto her bleeding wrist to stop the slow but steady trickle of blood.

"I need the police," she panted, looking around with wet, red and wild eyes.

"They are coming, miss," he told her. A crowed had began to circle her. The man told them to back off and give her some room but everyone wanted an eye full.

"I need to warn them," she breathed. Someone draped a coat over her shoulders.

"Warn them of what Miss?"

"but they have to take him alive. They have to promise me or I won't help them," she whispered. She owed him that. She pulled the coat more tightly around herself.

"Take who alive?" the man asked.

"Michael Myers," she said and a murmur ran through the crowed. "My names Charlotte Hurst, and I know where to find Michael Myers."

The crowd erupted into questions and the sirens met her ears. She felt dizzy. Her ears buzzed. She saw spots. No one caught her as she fell, and the last thing she heard was the sound of her skull smacking against the pavement.

()

A/N: Please let me know what you think about this one! I hope to update soon, but I would love some feedback. Thanks so much to those of you who review. They mean so much to me!

Part one is going to be ending soon, but there will be no wait for part two. I'm just separating it because there is going to be a passage of time.

Again, please review!


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